


Speechless

by Sed



Series: Cursed [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Abduction, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Curses, Gambling, Getting to Know Each Other, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lack of Communication, M/M, Muteness, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rimming, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Shaw's been struck with a curse, and Flynn has volunteered to look after him until it runs its course. Convenient for Flynn, rather inconvenient for Shaw.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Series: Cursed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728049
Comments: 94
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting in my docs for a while, and I am really excited to finally share it. It's probably going to be about two or three chapters long, but I don't want to make any promises.

Flynn wiped a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. “Cursed, you say?”

Halford Wyrmbane nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so. Our best healers can’t seem to do anything to help it. He’ll have to wait out the duration of the curse, however long that may be.”

Now Flynn was looking over Shaw with obvious glee. “An ancient Drust silencing curse with no obvious expiration, hm?” He crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to give the matter some thought. “Well, you’ve twisted my arm, I’ll do it.”

“Do what, Captain Fairwind?”

“I’ll take responsibility for him until such time as this nasty curse has run its course. After all, he’s no use to you like this, is he?”

Beside him, Shaw was emphatically shaking his head no. He had a murderous look in his eyes. Not so very different from most days, really.

“Your offer is… generous, Captain, but I don’t believe it’s necessary,” Wyrmbane said. “He’ll undoubtedly recover in a day or two.”

“A day or _two_ …? Mate, listen, I’ll be straight with you, I’d really like to do this.” He ignored Wyrmbrane’s cocked brow at his casual use of the familiar term, rather than his rank.

Shaw, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in perhaps the single most sincere expression of hatred Flynn had ever witnessed, clenched his hands into fists. He was practically vibrating with anger. It was glorious.

“I don’t know,” Wyrmbane said uneasily. He looked to Shaw, who was once again shaking his head, quite clear about _his_ feelings on the matter.

Flynn felt like an urchin grasping for a gold coin in an Upton gutter. He _needed_ this. Only, unlike the urchin, he didn’t exactly know _why_. It just seemed like something that would vastly improve his life, and he wasn’t in the habit of denying himself those urges. “I’ll waive my entire share of the haul on the next expedition. Fifty percent of my share of the haul on the next expedition.”

Shandris Feathermoon, who up to that point had remained silent and stoic as her kind were wont to do, finally weighed in on the matter. “Regardless of his lackluster sell, I believe the good captain has Master Shaw’s best interests at heart. What harm could it do to grant his request?”

Shaw slowly turned himself at the waist, setting wide, incredulous eyes on Shandris. She only smiled kindly at him in return.

Much to Shaw’s very obvious (if silent) displeasure, Wyrmbane seemed to be considering her support for Flynn’s appeal. He grasped his own chin with his fingertips and breathed out a long sigh. “He has a point, Shaw,” he said at last. “You’re not much use to us here without your voice. Don’t—” He held up a gauntleted hand, as though Shaw, who was already making several very emphatic gestures, might actually speak up in his own defense. “Don’t misunderstand me, you are a highly valued member of this team, and I’ve no doubt you of all people could find a way to make yourself useful, voice or no voice. But I also have to consider that your condition may cause you undue strain in the meantime. And while the healers are almost certain you have nothing to fear of additional complications, _almost_ isn’t good enough. You’re relieved from duty, effective immediately.”

He turned a wary eye on Flynn, who stood prim and proper, hands tucked behind his back, fighting not to bounce on the toes of his boots.

“I am releasing him into your care, Captain. See to it you mind that last part— _care_. Look after him. Your future with the Alliance may very well depend on how closely you monitor his condition.”

His future in general likely depended on how neatly he could toe the line of truly angering the spymaster, but he was game to try despite—or perhaps _because of—_ the risk. “Understood, of course.” He sketched a sloppy salute and spun on his heel to face Shaw. “Looks like it’s you and me, my friend.”

Shaw lunged for him, and it was only Shandris’ timely intervention that kept him from tackling Flynn to the deck. “Now, Spymaster,” she admonished, “Captain Fairwind has given his word that he will look after you. Perhaps some gratitude is in order.” She patted his arm affectionately—something Flynn would have wagered only an individual of her years and experience could hope to get away with cleanly. “Beginning with _not_ attacking him,” she added.

Shaw opened his mouth and it was clear he wanted very much to speak up on his own behalf, to argue with one or all of them, but it was useless. He snapped his jaw shut again with an audible click, and instead began making an abundance of very strange gestures with his hands.

“Is this like the time I got washed out on grog and they found me babbling nonsense to a krolusk hatchling?” Flynn asked. He watched the rapid display of nonverbal communication with mild amusement.

“SI:7 visual signals. They’re not meant to serve for everyday communication,” Wyrmbane noted, “but I believe he’s saying—oh, Shaw. No.”

“I think I could puzzle out that last one on my own,” Flynn said. If he was right, that likely involved a _lot_ of blood.

No doubt sensing he was losing the battle for his dignity, Shaw turned toward the map table and reached for a sheaf of parchment, secured beneath a weighted plotter. Flynn’s hand closed on it first, and he batted Shaw’s away. In turn Shaw redoubled his efforts.

“St—stop that,” Flynn hissed. “No. Hey—no.”

“Gentlemen,” Wyrmbane admonished.

Shaw continued to fight with Flynn for the parchment, but Flynn put his hand on the stack and leaned his full weight into it.

“This is quite interesting,” Shandris remarked.

“If you’re both finished.” Wyrmbane gestured for Shaw to step aside with him, and the two men leaned in close as the high commander attempted to reason with the recalcitrant spymaster. It was meant to be a private conversation, but Flynn had never really grasped that concept, truth be told. He made as though he was studying the map, and listened in on the hushed, one-sided exchange.

“We can’t afford to have you out of commission longer than this takes to work itself out,” Wyrmbane muttered. “I understand this is an imposition—” Flynn made an unhappy face at that, “—but I’d like to know _someone_ is keeping an eye on you, and I can’t spare anyone else. I’d like to avoid making it an order.”

“Impressive eavesdropping for one with ears so small,” Shandris muttered next to him. She wasn’t looking at him, but Flynn caught her slight smile.

“I’m guessing you can hear every word?” he asked.

“I can hear Master Shaw breathing, Captain. If you’re curious, it’s increased in both depth and speed.”

Flynn could hardly make out their words over the sounds of the harbor and the rhythmic lap of the waves. He was duly impressed. “Wish I could say that wasn’t on account of all the ways he’s imagining my grisly end,” he mused.

Shandris arched a long, slender brow. “Do you?”

The question, so casually posed, left Flynn gaping at nothing. He cleared his throat and rapped his chest with the side of his fist. “Ah, well—” He perked up and pushed off from the table with a grin. Evidently Wyrmbane had made his point. “Looks like my charge is ready. Shall we, Spymaster?” Flynn crooked his elbow and held it out for Shaw to take. It was met with a disdainful sneer, and Shaw promptly stalked off down the gangplank.

“Captain.” Wyrmbane’s tone was mission-serious as he looked down on Flynn. How he managed to cross his arms so tightly under all that plate was a mystery. “Mind my instructions,” he said.

“Aye-aye,” Flynn answered with a wave. He then loped off after Shaw, ducking into the bounce of the wooden boards as he hopped onto the platform beside the ship.

Shaw was already halfway to the market before Flynn caught up to him. “First order of business, I believe, is lunch. How do you feel about squid?”

The sneer on Shaw’s face was reminiscent of a growl, and Flynn liked to think he knew the spymaster well enough to interpret his attempts at communication accurately. Mostly, anyway. “That’s a no to the squid?” he asked. “Alright.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he pointed to a stall with a row of grilled tentacles hanging from a rung below the awning. “Octopus?”

  
Flynn finished the last of his lunch with a belch, thoroughly enjoying Shaw’s glare across the table. “You’ve got to lighten up, mate. I wonder if your anger isn’t somehow feeding this curse.” He pointed a fork, one octopus sucker still speared on the tines, at Shaw. “That can happen, you know. Saw it with a shipmate of mine. Poor fellow ended up a broken wreck, not a friend in the world.” He pulled the sucker from the fork with his front teeth. “Course, you’re already halfway there, aren’t you?”

Shaw turned his by now familiar glare on Flynn, but it fell away quickly. He seemed to have lost most of his will to resist Flynn’s efforts to tease him. That was a pity. “It’s only a joke, Spymaster. I know you’ve got plenty of friends. Take me, for example.” He put a hand to his own chest. “I even bought you lunch!”

Shaw made a sweeping gesture over his untouched sailor’s pie.

“I genuinely thought you might like it, you can’t fault me for that one.” He watched Shaw’s frown deepen, and scoffed, “I offered you some of mine.”

The look of pure disgust Shaw gave him was not nearly as entertaining as he’d hoped it would be. Flynn pushed his plate away and reached for Shaw’s, only to be stopped by a spoon, brandished threateningly in his face.

“It’s gone cold!” Flynn objected.

Shaw’s look, complete with slightly raised eyebrows and flat stare, clearly said _And?_

“Alright, I won’t stop you. Enjoy your cold pie.”

He let Shaw eat in silence for a few minutes, observing him without really observing. Though he was convinced Shaw had eyes like a spider’s, and could in fact see everything happening around him at all times. He had yet to produce evidence for that theory beyond gut feeling and having been caught doing numerous things he shouldn’t, but he was confident time would prove him right.

After a while he said, “It’s strange.” When Shaw looked up somewhat curiously he added, “You. Being so… easy to read. You know, on account of it’s the only way you can let me know how much you hate me. Feels like wearing boots on the wrong feet.”

Shaw finished chewing and sat back in his seat. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked around for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts before speaking. Finally he simply… shrugged.

“I’d complain, but you’re saying more to me like this than you ever have otherwise.”

Shaw seemed confused by that. He tilted his head, and his furrowed brow indicated, at least to Flynn, that he wanted the captain to explain himself further. Flynn scratched the back of his neck and made a noncommittal sound. “Not worth the effort, mate. Let’s leave it.”

But Shaw was not to be deterred, it seemed; he rapped his spoon against the table.

“Never thought a man with no voice could make so much noise,” Flynn groused. “I’ve got some things to do before the light’s gone. Nothing terribly strenuous. You can tag along, maybe see a side of Boralus you haven’t yet explored. Or else only seen from rooftops, while you were skulking about, I’ve honestly got no idea what you get up to when you’re not frowning at me.”

Shaw rolled his eyes, but he had stopped silently demanding an answer to his (literally) unspoken question, at least, so Flynn took that as a win.

They made their way out of the tavern and down the wharf, to a cut through that would take them into the former Ashvane yards and eventually the now-defunct docks. Shaw didn’t seem at all happy about being there, but Flynn accepted that as a natural part of his cantankerous personality. Where _would_ a man like Shaw be happy? Somewhere dark and cramped, no doubt.

Flynn took a deep breath through his nose. “Smell that?” he asked, and then promptly gagged and coughed until his throat was raw. “Ugh, not that. Anyway, friend of mine’s running a game out here, and I’ve been promising I’d stop by for ages. Figure there’s no better time than the present, eh? You’ll like it. Great atmosphere.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes as they walked, but he didn’t _stop_ walking. It really was strange to see him so expressive, so silent. Of course, he wasn’t exactly burdened with an overdeveloped need to speak his mind to begin with. But total silence was just… unnerving. Flynn had thought he would enjoy it, and to an extent he was. But Shaw’s moods were somehow less amusing without an accompanying stony glare and a concession to some hare-brained scheme blown out on a long-suffering sigh. Those were _familiar_ , Flynn _liked_ them.

Abruptly remembering Shandris Feathermoon’s question aboard the _Redemption_ , Flynn grimaced. Of course he liked Shaw, who wouldn’t? The man was like a limpet stuck to a rock, and there was nothing Flynn liked better than a challenge. He wasn’t entirely certain that was why he’d been so keen to get his mitts on the spymaster for the duration of his little Drust-inspired holiday, but it definitely didn’t _not_ have anything to do with it. From their very first mission together he’d known he wanted to be among the no doubt rare few who could claim to be Mathias Shaw’s friends.

They reached the warehouse-turned-arena and Flynn gave the bouncer his name. The burly, sneering sailor cocked his head and tossed a thumb over his shoulder, allowing them entry.

“It’s a good thing you aren’t waltzing around in bright blue and gold armor, mate,” Flynn muttered as they passed the makeshift bar. Several people looked up, but it was Shaw their eyes fell upon, not Flynn. “Try not to look _too_ uptight and official, yeah? Makes a lot like this nervous. And stabby.”

Shaw shrugged, which Flynn took to mean that he was blaming his companion for their unwanted attention. He wasn’t wrong, if that was indeed what he had on his mind; Flynn probably could have warned him. Given him time to change. Assuming he _had_ clothes to change into, and not just more of the same armor.

“Place yer bets!” a voice shouted over the din. Flynn shouldered his way through the crowd around the small, netted ring—no wider than a dinghy—and flagged down the speaker.

“Oi, Maddy!” he called out. Maddy “Mad Crab” Chandler looked up and flashed Flynn a lopsided grin—lopsided because half of his face had stopped working after a nasty knife wound sustained in a bar fight. But tides, what a fight it was. Even Maddy said it’d been worth it.

“Flynn Fairwind, I see you’ve finally darkened my door,” Maddy said. “Brought a new friend with you, by any chance?”

He meant a crab. Maddy wasn’t called “Mad Crab” because he was particularly wild or dangerous, though most people weren’t aware of that. Put plainly, the man just had a strange affinity for the little pinchy devils. A sort of spiritual connection, if one were inclined to believe crustaceans capable of such a thing. Maddy certainly did.

“Not today, but I’ve got one of the two-legged variety.” Flynn reached out and grasped Shaw by the upper arm, tugging him close. He had somehow managed to drift back into the crowd. Spies. “This here is my good friend, Shaw.”

“Shaw have a first name?” Maddy asked. He had pushed his way through the crowd to join them somewhere on the fringe. Maddy’s various assistants and money handlers were busy taking wagers and marking odds. In the small ring lay two cages, each no bigger than a bread loaf. Sounds of hissing and little tiny taps came from within. Shaw seemed more interested in the contents of the cages than meeting Maddy, which was fair.

“Mathias,” Flynn said, also drawing Shaw’s attention back to the conversation. “He’s a bit tongue-tied today, I’m afraid.”

Maddy lifted the one eyebrow he could still control. It was his left, as it happened.

“Drust curse,” Flynn explained. “Nasty business.”

“So it is,” Maddy said, nodding. “Well, match is about to start, you two feel like placing a wager?”

“Who’s fighting?”

“Citizen Snips and Pinch o’ Sea Salt. Odds favor Salt.” He paused for a beat. “How’s about I put you down for thirty silver on Snips?”

Maddy always did seem to know what Flynn was going to say before he even said it. Maybe it was some sort of crab sense. “Aye, but make it a gold.”

Maddy’s working eyebrow shot up even higher. “How’s that Alliance work treating you, then?”

“Same as any other contract haul, you know how it is. But as it happens, my friend here is paying our way today.” He reached out and slapped a palm across Shaw’s leather chestplate. “He’s the generous sort. Wants to thank me for looking after him during his time of need. I said I wouldn’t hear of it, but the poor sod can’t even argue, look at him.”

They did; Shaw was an impressive shade of scarlet. If not for the muggy warmth of the room Flynn might have expected to see steam rising from his ears.

“Does he, now?” Maddy asked skeptically.

Flynn nudged Shaw with his hip, and the spymaster relented with a quiet sigh. He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a single lion-stamped gold piece. “Fancy,” Flynn said.

Maddy took the gold and pocketed it, shaking his head and smiling faintly. “C’mere, I’ve got the VIP treatment for you.” He turned and led them past the crowd, over to a single table up on a small, wooden rise. It was only a pallet with a couple of crates and a barrel with a plank on top, but compared to the rest of what they were working with, it might as well have been the king’s private box at a sold-out show. “I’ll have a couple of ales sent over,” he added. “First round’s free for an old friend.”

Shaw shook his head, but Flynn pushed at his shoulder. “Ignore him, he loves ale,” he said. “You love—yes, you do. _Stop it_.”

Maddy disappeared with a laugh, and Shaw folded his arms over his chest so tightly that Flynn thought he might actually stop breathing.

“Oh, don’t be such a… you. Unwind a little, Master Shaw. You’re off duty.”

 _I’m never off duty,_ said Shaw’s icy stare, but Flynn waved it off with a snort. He could think whatever he wanted; Wyrmbane’s orders, and Shaw’s total inability to actually argue the matter, said otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crab fights are a real thing in WoW. You can catch some down by Falconhurst, in Drustvar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally assumed this would be three chapters, but at this point I'm thinking it might be four. I won't know until I'm done with the next chapter, so I'm changing the total count back to ? because I don't want to make promises.

“I realize suffering my company is the next best thing to outright torture, but it could be worse,” Flynn said, ignoring the way Shaw’s brows bunched into an unhappy furrow. Like a prickly little caterpillar. He drank some of his ale—one of two, as Shaw had refused to partake of anything remotely enjoyable—and slammed the mug down on the tabletop. “You could be stuck aboard the _Wind’s Redemption_ , angry at yourself for getting cursed, angry at everyone else for not understanding what it is you want, and angry at me for good measure and no real reason other than you enjoy spreading your unhappiness like a common cold. Trust me, you’re better off here.”

Shaw rolled his eyes and, unless Flynn was deceived, slumped a bit lower in his seat. He kept his gaze on the fighting ring, where Pinch o’ Sea Salt was currently upside down, pointy little legs scrabbling uselessly at the air. His (or her, who could tell?) opponent was circling, menacing claws clacking wildly.

“Is it my imagination, or are you invested in the outcome of this fight?” Flynn asked.

Without taking his eyes from the fight, Shaw tapped the coin pouch on his belt.

“It’s one gold,” Flynn scoffed. “Even if you win you’ll only have _two_ gold.”

He received a narrow-eyed, slightly incredulous stare in response.

“Alright, you got me, I’ve no idea how it actually works. Never really been much of a gambler.”

That actually earned him a small and rather fleeting smile. More of a quick twitch of the lips, if anything. Still, Flynn had spied the crack in the limpet’s shell. “Of course, that’s never stopped me from trying,” he continued. “Made one or two or twelve bad wagers in my lifetime in the pursuit of success. Always figured luck would eventually win out.”

Shaw gave him a wry look that seemed to ask _and how did that work out for you?_

“Yes, well,” Flynn said, mumbling the words into his drink, “s’why I wagered with your gold, isn’t it.”

Meanwhile, things were heating up in the ring below; without warning the tides abruptly turned on Snips, turning the match in the blink of an eye—or an eye stalk, Flynn supposed—and the crowd around the battling crustaceans erupted like an azerite geyser. In no time at all Salt had his opponent on the ropes. The fight was over before you could say _crab boil_.

Flynn tipped back the last of his ale with a wince for the slightly sour taste that chased it. Spared no expense, that Maddy. Although the fight had ended, he couldn’t help but notice that Shaw was sitting up a bit straighter, an attentive stare fixed on the center of the room, and on the cages carrying the next two crabs bound for the ring.

“Your winnings,” Maddy said, ambling up to the small platform with a leather coin pouch in his hand. He caught Flynn’s eye, and Flynn ever-so-slightly tilted his head in Shaw’s direction. For a refreshing change of pace, the spymaster didn’t seem to notice the exchange. “Unless you’d rather roll these over into another wager,” Maddy said carefully, half-watching Flynn as he spoke to Shaw. “The next match’ll be starting soon.”

Shaw finally dragged his attention away from the cages, where the subjects of the upcoming match were already hissing and spitting and… gurgling oddly at each other. He looked at the pouch in Maddy’s hand, and then lifted his gaze to Flynn, who only smiled innocently.

They stayed for the next six fights.

It turned out that Mathias Shaw was surprisingly adept at sizing up crabs as potential combatants. Even Maddy was impressed, and it took a significant talent in the crab-related arts to earn his approval. “Aye, he’s got the gift,” Maddy had remarked with obvious joy. Maddy always had been a little strange, even before the knife fight.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time the last fight reached its rather violent conclusion, with twitching limbs scattered across the arena floor in the waning light. Flynn winced into his ale, and Shaw watched, wide-eyed, as the winner clacked in triumph.

“They’ll grow back,” Flynn assured him.

Shaw ignored the apparently unnecessary gesture. He stood up and stretched, folding his arms up over his shoulders, elbows pointed to the roof of the warehouse. It was the most human thing Flynn had ever seen him do, and he was strangely transfixed by it for reasons he didn’t entirely understand and chose not to question. The whisper of a grunt escaped the spymaster as he arched his neck into the stretch. He blew out all the air in his lungs with a heavy sigh, and promptly dropped back down onto the flats of his feet.

“Feeling better, are we?” Flynn asked.

Shaw turned a frown on him, but he didn’t bother to express his disdain in colorful gestures this time, which was a nice surprise. He did seem to be in somewhat better spirits, however. Flynn was almost starting to think their day out might yet prove to be the turning point in their association. Of course, he’d volunteered for this “mission” fully intending to pester the silent spymaster into a spectacular and utterly silent blowup. But as it turned out, these stolen glimpses of what lay beneath the stoic facade were almost as rewarding as needling a mute tantrum from the man. Who could have guessed?

“Hope I’ll see you both in here again soon,” Maddy said, once more appearing from the crowd to join them at their table. He handed over a significantly larger sack of coins, placing it directly in Shaw’s open hand this time. “You’re always welcome.”

To Flynn’s complete and utter astonishment, Shaw actually dipped his head in a small bow, silently offering Maddy his thanks. Maddy returned the gesture and, after clapping Flynn on the back and offering him a parting smile, disappeared back into the milling crowd.

“So, it’s crabs, is it?” Flynn asked. “That’s all I needed to wriggle my way onto your good side?”

Shaw rolled his eyes, tying the pouch to his belt.

“Figures. World’s most cantankerous creatures, I tell you. Pinch for no reason at all! I might’ve guessed you’d find some kinship with them. Impressed the locals, as well. Maddy was just about ready to adopt you.” He reached out and tapped the sack of coins on Shaw’s belt. “What say we go blow this windfall on something dangerously irresponsible?”

He received a withering glare for that, and answered it with a smile. “Just irresponsible, then?” he corrected.

Before Shaw could gesture or frown his response to that suggestion, a deep voice lifted above the chatter to bellow, “ _You!_ ”

Flynn turned to find a very large, very angry sailor bearing down on them from the other side of the arena. “Look at that, time to go,” he said cheerfully. He tugged at Shaw’s elbow. “Let’s move it along, Spymaster. I made a promise to Wyrmbane, and bringing you back with two broken legs _might_ be considered a violation of our agreement.” Wyrmbane hadn’t mentioned anything about preserving Shaw’s ability to walk, after all. 

But Shaw pulled his arm away from Flynn, giving him a flat, unimpressed look. Behind him the startlingly large sailor pushed several patrons aside to reach them faster.

Flynn laughed, the sound of it a bit manic, even to his own ears. “Well, that’s fantastic. We’re going to die.”

“You’re a cheat!” the sailor roared, bearing down on Shaw with an ugly sneer. He pointed one thick finger at the center of Shaw’s chest and gave him a poke. That one light touch was enough to make him shuffle back a step, and Flynn groaned into his palm as Shaw steadied himself against the table.

The spymaster stared up at the sailor, his face a mask of practiced contempt. (Practiced on Flynn, more often than not.) He crossed his arms and lifted his chin ever so slightly, and even without a voice there was no mistaking his challenge to the man: _prove it_.

“No one wins seven matches in a row!” the sailor barked in Shaw’s face. “No one is that lucky!”

“Mate, we’re just—”

Furious eyes turned on him like loaded cannons brought to bear, and Flynn snapped his mouth shut. “I’m not talkin’ to you,” the sailor said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned back to Shaw. “I’m talkin’ to this Alliance dog, here. Got nothin’ to say for yourself?”

“Actually…”

“Need your pretty little pirate friend to protect you, is that it? Too good to talk to the common rabble? That’s why you’re out here slumming where none of your friends can see you, I’ll bet.”

“He’s—wait, _pretty?_ Look, I appreciate the compliment and all, who couldn’t use a little pick-me-up now and then, but _pretty_ isn’t exactly the sort of…” Flynn swallowed back the rest of what he was going to say. Shaw and the sailor were both staring at him, their eyes narrowed for what Flynn suspected were very different reasons. Shaw was shaking his head slightly.

“Not the time. Right.”

The sailor turned his attention back to Shaw. “I ought to wring the gold out of you—”

“Not really a pirate, either. Anymore.” Flynn cleared his throat. “Worth noting.”

The sailor had just opened his mouth to shout something no doubt very threatening and unpleasant, when he was interrupted by one of Maddy’s bouncers. “What’s goin’ on over there?” the bouncer demanded. He was easily twice as wide as the sailor and a head taller. All three men looked up to find him pushing his way through the room with alarming ease.

Things were escalating a little too rapidly for Flynn’s tastes.

Without bothering to ask permission, mainly because he knew he’d never receive it, he reached out and took Shaw by the wrist. Using the element of surprise to his advantage, he dragged the spymaster off balance and into the crowd, slipping into the chaos and confusion of dozens of bodies jammed together in the center of the warehouse floor. He felt a stubborn tug, but held tight; he had no intention of allowing Shaw to have his head cracked open. Wyrmbane would _never_ let him hear the end of it if that happened.

An unhappy, offended scoff cut sharply through the noise around them, and Flynn abruptly whirled on the spymaster at the end of his arm. “Rather keen to keep my head where it is,” he said, looking around to see if they had been followed. “I realize that’s terribly inconvenient for you, what with your apparently unceasing need to incite rage in everyone you meet. Perhaps you could wait until I’m no longer honor-bound by your silly Alliance ethics to take a beating with you—or for you. Much as I’m certain you’d like nothing more than to be rid of me, it might put a damper on your own plans to end up lying dead in the same ditch.”

He expected an argument. He had also forgotten that Shaw couldn’t speak. When he realized that no scathing reply was forthcoming, Flynn looked at the spymaster, who was still tethered to him by the tight grip on his wrist. He didn’t seem angry about it. In fact, Flynn couldn’t have begun to guess how he might categorize the man’s expression, but it was far from offended. He only stared back, lips slightly parted, an almost perplexed look on his face. Finally, after what felt like far too long to pause in the midst of an escape, he nodded, and Flynn felt the pull against his grip go slack.

Well. It seemed to be a day for surprises.

“Good, now, mind if we leave?” he asked, not waiting for a reply (not that one was forthcoming) before taking off at the same brisk pace as before.

They didn’t stop until they were back out on the docks, surrounded once more by the pungent odor of rotting wood, rotting sea life, and something Flynn couldn’t immediately identify. Whatever it was, he assumed it was also rotting.

He released Shaw’s wrist and doubled over with his hands on his knees, sucking in one deep, rasping lungful of air after another until his head finally stopped buzzing. “Probably shouldn’t—have kept—ordering refills, huh?” he wheezed.

Shaw, damn him, was completely unaffected by their mad dash. He had his arms crossed, watching Flynn with a look of pure, smug satisfaction.

“I just—saved your life,” Flynn said between breaths. “How is it—” he swallowed, “—how is it you’re standing there looking like the cat that got the cream?”

The gentle arch of one eyebrow was all the answer he received.

“He was more than twice your size!”

That prompted a slight tilt of the head, Shaw’s lips pressed into a flat line.

“He would have knocked you out cold, Shaw. I saved you.” Flynn punctuated the statement with a finger pointed at himself. “That was my doing.” Why was he _still_ breathing so hard? And why wasn’t _Shaw?_

As an answer to the question he definitely hadn’t asked (out loud), Shaw reached out and pinched Flynn’s side. “Ow! What’s that supposed to mean?!”

Alright. Mathias Shaw _pinched_ people. Duly noted. _No wonder he’s so good with crabs,_ Flynn mused.

Shaw mimed taking a drink, and then held his arms out as if that simply explained everything.

“I’ll have you know I’m in superb shape, thank you very much. This,” Flynn said, slapping his palms against his belly, “is solid muscle. We Kul Tirans are built much sturdier than you mainlanders, is all.” He turned to watch as a dock hand roughly the width of a dry reed shuffled past. “Well, not him, but everyone else.”

Shaw actually laughed at that—silently, of course—and canted his head sharply to indicate that they should leave. “Mixed me up with one of your SI:7 goons, have you? Well, I’ll allow it this once,” Flynn said charitably. “I am in charge, however. Remember that.”

He received a light elbow to the ribs, making him grunt. Since when was Shaw so handsy? Or… elbowy. And _pinchy_. For that matter, since when did Shaw _laugh?_ And why was Flynn so incredibly disappointed that he couldn’t actually hear it?

Flynn contemplated all of those things as they made their way through the Ashvane yards and into Dampwick Ward. Nothing really changed, apart from the criminal element looking decidedly less like seasoned sailors, and decidedly more drawn and hungry. They passed a group of men—thugs, Flynn mentally corrected—milling about outside some small, dilapidated apartments. Little better than sheds piled on sheds, really. He himself was well acquainted with such humble accommodations, and he did _not_ miss them.

“Excuse me,” a little voice spoke up, interrupting the thugs. Flynn craned his neck past Shaw’s right shoulder and spotted a very little girl in a tattered dress and no shoes, holding what appeared to be a strip of burlap. That sight was also unsettlingly familiar.

Flynn slowed, and Shaw matched him step for step, coming to a stop when Flynn did.

“ _What!_ ” one of the thugs snapped at the girl. He shook off her little hand when she reached for his sleeve.

“My kitten’s gotten stuck. Up there,” she said, pointing to the top of a very unsteady looking tower of shacks. They appeared to have been slapped together from discarded ship parts, tar, and quite a lot of hope. How a cat had managed to get up there without toppling the whole thing was a head scratcher, quite frankly. There was no way a grown man would make it up to the top and back down again safely.

There was a shuffling sound and a yelp behind him, and Flynn turned back to find the girl lying on the ground in the mud, several feet from where she had been standing. The thug had returned to his conversation. He seemed wholly unmoved by her plight, if the rough shove he’d given her was anything to go by.

Shaw started to step forward, but Flynn put a hand on his chest to hold him back. “More of them than us, mate,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head. “Let’s see to something we _can_ do.” He drew Shaw along with him, over to where the girl was picking herself up off the ground. She winced and stepped down on what appeared to be a twisted ankle.

Beside him Shaw was seething. Flynn gave him a nudge with his elbow. “Lost your cat, have you?” he asked the girl. “That her leash?”

“It’s _his_ collar,” the girl said, pinching her little face into a sour frown. “His name’s Crawdad.”

“Fine name,” Flynn said. “Don’t you agr—SHAW!”

Shaw was already halfway up the structure, climbing as deftly as a hozen, leaping nimbly between the unsteady outer wall of the shack tower and the adjacent building when necessary. In no time at all he was on the roof. He disappeared for just a moment, and Flynn expected to see him return with his arms full of cat. What Flynn did _not_ expect was to see the spymaster with his arms held out in a shrug, absent anything even remotely furry (the arm hair visible through the brief gaps in his armor notwithstanding), looking as perplexed as Flynn felt.

“Are you sure your kitten went up there?” he asked, turning around to look down at the girl.

She was gone. A trail of tiny footprints through the mud indicated she’d disappeared into the maze of shacks and ramshackle apartments.

“Ah, blast it—” He patted himself down all the way to his boots. Gone. Every copper, every silver, every damned sliver of gold, gone.

“She’s picked me clean, Shaw. C’mon down,” Flynn called out. He could no longer see Shaw up on the roof, and he assumed the spymaster had found a faster way down around the back. Sure enough, the man himself reappeared moments later, breathing only a little bit harder than normal. How was he so bloody _fit?_ He never did anything but stand around on the damned _Redemption_.

Shaw cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Pickpocket,” Flynn said, shrugging lightly. “Saw us coming at a nautical mile.” The thugs had disappeared as well. If he’d had so much as a copper left to him he would have bet good money they were all part of the same gang. The whole encounter had likely been a setup. “Took everything we had.”

Shaw frowned. He reached for the coin pouch tied to his belt, his expression turning angry when his fingers met nothing but air.

“Yeah, ‘bout that,” Flynn said. He scratched the back of his head nervously. “See…”

With an exasperated sigh, Shaw put his hands up to forestall the inevitable barrage of excuses.

Flynn gave him a lopsided smile. “I thought it’d be best if I held on to our winnings, y’see.”

_Our winnings?_ Shaw’s look said.

“I was there. I helped.”

Shaw rolled his eyes.

“I did! Oh, don’t be so surly. I was only holding it _for_ you. You wouldn’t have even had that gold if I hadn’t dragged you out here. Admit it, you’ve had fun. Pickpockets and all.”

Despite the excellent pitch, Shaw did not, in fact, admit anything. Not that he could. Instead, he marched off in the direction of the shacks, eyes fixed on the ground. It took Flynn a few seconds to figure out what he was doing.

He was following the girl’s tracks.

“Hey, no!” Flynn called after him. He jogged across the mud and puddles and piles of suspicious… something, catching up to Shaw just as he was preparing to slip into the space between two buildings. He really was ridiculously nimble for a man his size. “Leave it,” Flynn said. He had a hand on Shaw’s arm, holding him where he was.

Shaw’s look was a mixture of curiosity and sheer obstinance, and he glanced down at where Flynn had a grip on his elbow.

Flynn sighed. “She’s only doing what they made her do, alright? You go stirring up trouble and you’ll get more than you bargained for. It won’t be pretty—for us _or_ for her.”

Shaw’s frown deepened. It took a moment, during which Flynn was wondering just how much some dirty little urchin’s life might mean to a man of Shaw’s trade, but his faith was rewarded after a fairly tense (and intense) bout of meaningful stares. With a nod Flynn took for a signal of his understanding, Shaw stepped back out of the small alley.

“Not like either of us really needs the gold anyway,” Flynn added, mostly for his own benefit. “They might even give her a cut of it if she’s lucky.” If they were the sort of gang that bothered to share. Most didn’t. At least there was a good chance she would be fed decently for once. A haul like that was nothing to sniff at.

He looked up to find Shaw watching him with a strange expression on his face.

“What?”

Shaw shook his head. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the direction they had been headed before their inauspicious side trip. Flynn followed without complaint for once, glad to get out of the mud, and more than a little weary of Dampwick already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter shouldn't take so long now that I'm back to writing regularly. Thanks for your patience!


	3. Chapter 3

They were nearing the bridge that would take them across the channel when they heard a distressingly familiar voice behind them.

“There they are!”

Flynn turned on his heel and felt his stomach give a lurch; the surly sailor was back, but this time he wasn’t alone. Close to a dozen others followed behind him, trailing in his wake like scavengers headed toward a feeding frenzy. To a man they were all wide as a mainmast and easily a head taller than Flynn.

“We should leave,” he said.

Shaw responded with the same stubborn set of his jaw that Flynn had come to think of as step one in his three-part plan to end up stomped into the cobblestones of Boralus. He turned to face the oncoming tide of misplaced anger and poor life choices with a determined grimace.

“Oh, no. _No_. We are _not_ fighting.” Flynn grabbed his arm and pulled, but this time Shaw was ready for him. He leaned into it just enough to set Flynn off his balance, and then jerked his arm away. “Dirty trick!” Flynn exclaimed, abruptly finding his fingers grasping at air. “Look, I’ll concede you might’ve taken the first one, but even you can’t handle that many at once, Shaw.” He sighed. “And since I’m not leaving you behind to get your skull cracked, I suppose we’ll just have to die together. How’s that for poetic.”

Flynn knew he had him when he saw the subtle slump of his shoulders.

“Mind if we run for it, then?” he asked.

Shaw nodded, and together they turned and made a break for the closest row of shops and small houses. Hook Point wasn’t nearly as cramped as Dampwick Ward, but slipping between the buildings was still no easy feat. They emerged on the other side to the sound of boots beating across the ground toward them, and before Flynn could think he was being turned, manhandled none-too-gently into the cramped interior of an attached toolshed. The wood-slat door slammed shut behind them, and silence descended.

“Is this—”

Shaw pressed a finger against Flynn’s lips to silence him, and Flynn dutifully obeyed, a little too accustomed to taking the man’s orders whether he had a voice or not. Through the gaps in the wall of the shed he could see the angry sailors pass by their hiding spot, barking out orders to one another as they fanned out to search in every direction.

He was also painfully aware of every long, lean inch of Mathias Shaw that was pressed up against him, practically molded to his own form, warming him from thigh to shoulder. He swallowed hard and struggled to find his voice. “Mind—mind giving me a bit of space, mate?” he whispered.

Shaw’s startlingly green eyes peered at him through the darkness of the shed. He had an odd look about him, strange in a way that Flynn was wholly unprepared to decipher. But he shuffled aside to put a little more space between them, and Flynn let out the breath he’d been holding for what felt like hours already.

When enough time had passed that they were both certain the angry mob must have moved on, Shaw finally pushed off and backed them out of the shed. He took a quick look around and gave a nod to indicate that they were in the clear. There was nothing about his demeanor to suggest he found anything that had occurred in the shed even the slightest bit alarming or untoward. How wonderful for him.

Still reeling from the unexpected close contact, Flynn straightened himself up, brushed off his clothes, and gave the strange, tight feeling in his chest a firm kick to the face.

Problem solved.

  
Upton Borough was a far sight safer than Dampwick or even Hook Point. (And the latter only really suffered such inconvenience on account of its close proximity to the more unseemly side of Boralus.) The food was better, and the entertainment a bit less ribald. Flynn couldn’t fault them for that last part, what with Proudmoore Keep and the academy so close by. He would, however, enjoy the opportunity to partake of something a little more savory than a bowl of overcooked stew, or a meal that had been crawling about the bottom of the sound just that morning. It was nearing dinner—or past it, he’d lost track of time, honestly—and his belly was making its protests known.

Shaw’s easy shrug when he suggested stopping for dinner was not exactly what Flynn had expected. He couldn’t help but find it a tad confusing when the spymaster didn’t put up so much as a token protest. Half the fun was giving the man a hard time, and they’d just escaped a fairly severe pummeling. Where was the adrenaline, the belligerent spark? Why wasn’t Shaw lecturing him with his eyes, or dragging him back to Hook Point to find the thugs and take them out with a few well-placed hits and a poisoned dagger or two? Not that he was keen to engage in murder, of course, but Shaw seemed the type.

It was just strange. Truth be told, he didn’t quite know what to make of it. And Shaw, being that he still couldn’t speak and all, wasn’t offering any explanations of his own. 

They wandered the Upton streets until a cozy little tavern came into view. It was the sort of place where the patrons sat quietly and enjoyed the ambiance with an ale, and the only lively activity taking place on the floor was a scintillating debate about local politics. Some poor sod in the corner was playing a concertina. Flynn sighed and shook his head.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” a young woman asked as they stepped through the door. She glanced at the hand Flynn had pressed to his stomach. “Table for two?”

“Aye,” Flynn answered, adding a belated, “thanks… er, thank you.”

They were offered a pair of menus, which was unusual enough that it took Flynn a moment to remember he was meant to take one. Shaw seemed entirely at peace with the situation as he settled in to look over his options. Flynn figured that Stormwind must be full of elegant venues and fine dining.

“Suppose I should take my coat off,” he muttered. No one else was wearing a coat, and certainly not one that had seen quite so many rough days and bad ideas.

He caught a quick glance from Shaw around the side of the menu, but the spymaster’s attention didn’t linger for very long. Flynn did his best to ignore it, as well as the nagging feeling that accompanied it. Instead, he busied himself getting his coat folded somewhat neatly, setting it in the extra seat between them. Even without it he still stuck out like a weed. Just a ruffian amongst the prim and polished members of high society. He felt as ridiculous as a seagull trying to blend in with a bunch of sandpipers.

Something tapped the side of his foot, and Flynn looked down to find Shaw’s boot knocking against his own. When he looked up again the spymaster had set his menu on the table. He had a questioning look about him.

“Decided already, have you?” Flynn asked. He was aware of the unhappy edge to his question, which Shaw had undoubtedly noticed as well, but not at all sure what to do about it. He was uncomfortable, confused, and a tad irritated. Problem was, he didn’t entirely understand _why_. Something was bothering him, and it wasn’t just the uptight, upper-crust dining accommodations—although that wasn’t helping matters.

He huffed out a dramatic sigh and picked up his own menu. Most of it read like bits of things he wouldn’t bother to eat if he had the choice, but apparently giving guts a fancy name and drizzling them with something called a _reduction_ meant it was fine dining. He finally settled on the least offensive item he could actually identify. “This’ll have to do,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you? Since I cost you all your winnings.”

Shaw frowned and indicated the other pouch on his belt. Before Flynn could poke the issue again, however, the woman from before returned to take their order. Flynn asked for his meal, and she turned to Shaw. “And what would you like, sir?” she asked. There was a design in her smile that Flynn suspected had nothing to do with angling for a better gratuity.

“Oh, he can’t speak,” he said.

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand and giving Shaw the most pitying look Flynn had ever seen. “What a shame!” she cried. “Such a handsome man, I’ll bet your voice was lovely.”

Flynn held back the snort he wanted very much to share. “Voice like an angel,” he said, nodding gravely. “Soloist with the Stormwind Choir.”

Across the table, Shaw was shaking his head. He didn’t seem at all bothered by Flynn’s obvious lies. He had a resigned look on his face as he listened to the woman ramble on about what a loss it was for Kul Tiras and the Alliance and oh, how she’d _love_ to see Stormwind some day. It was a bit too overt for Flynn’s tastes.

“Aye,” he said, butting in when she turned her back to him completely. “Nasty fight, it was. Took a fang to the throat. Druids. You know how it is.”

If anything that lie only made her _more_ interested in Shaw. Flynn couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly, but it was starting to annoy him. She pulled out the extra chair and sat down, pushing Flynn’s coat back until it was nearly hanging on the floor. “What a terrible thing to have to endure!” she gasped. “You must have such terrible discomfort from your wounds. You know, I’ve been told I have a healer’s hands—”

“Right, he’ll have the duck,” Flynn interrupted, putting perhaps a bit too much emphasis on _duck_ in an effort to get her attention. It worked. She turned around in the seat, gaping awkwardly for just a moment, and then promptly stood up.

She cleared her throat and said, “Would you like a pitcher with that?”

“Whatever’s cold,” Flynn said flatly. He shot her a fake smile and pointedly turned back to Shaw. “So.” He tapped his fingers on the table while he watched the barmaid sashay into the kitchen from the corner of his eye. “That little show notwithstanding, I suppose the burden of providing entertaining conversation once more falls upon me.”

He could have sworn Shaw’s look challenged the notion that any of their “conversations” thus far had been entertaining, but he chose to ignore it. The man was undoubtedly delirious with hunger.

As they were the only patrons actually eating, with all others bellied up to the bar and drinking quietly, their food arrived rather quickly. Shaw ate in silence, not that he had much choice in the matter, and Flynn regaled him with tales of his adventures, most of which were actually true.

“It was at this point I woke up, mid-flight, hanging from Galeheart’s talons.”

Shaw seemed less than convinced.

“I swear it!” Flynn said. “Ask Tae yourself. Or that champion, what’s her name… You know. The one with the armor?”

He watched as Shaw cut a tiny slice of his duck and piled it high with whatever strange green mash had been ladled onto the side of his plate. It didn’t seem very appetizing to Flynn, but then he had barely managed to find a single edible dish on the menu. By some small miracle it seemed eel was the one food all of society could agree on.

It was strange to share a peaceful meal with the man. Flynn continued to watch Shaw eat, certain the spymaster was oblivious to his gaze. Or else aware of it and entirely unconcerned. It had been a long day, and the curse didn’t seem as though it was really weakening. Not so much as a squeak had escaped Shaw since they set out from the _Wind’s Redemption_. Flynn found himself burdened by a strange sort of pity; Shaw was handling it well enough, but it had to be galling. A man of his nature, so accustomed to his every word carrying weight… Well, the least Flynn could do was keep him entertained. It was a far sight more generous than making _him_ the entertainment.

He continued his stories as Shaw ate, watching for those subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle cues that would indicate how he felt about the current subject. What was truly unnerving was that he seemed to enjoy all of the stories Flynn shared. Even the really weird ones—the ones that Flynn himself wasn’t entirely convinced had happened exactly as he remembered. He just nodded along with each one, finishing his meal and sipping on the ale the now-sullen barmaid had brought to their table. Which he hadn’t objected to drinking this time around, further confounding Flynn. By all accounts he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Flynn was convinced things were about to turn ugly. Surely Shaw wasn’t really so engaged by these wild tales?

Stranger still, he found himself dreading the moment it would all fall apart, and that bothered him perhaps more than the disconcerting level of attention and even _appreciation_ he was receiving from his captive audience.

He supposed it made a certain amount of sense, though. On reflection, it had been a nice day—angry sailors, thieving urchins, and more angry sailors notwithstanding. Flynn would have been the first to admit that he had expected their outing to end in a rather spectacular blowout by some time shy of noon-thirty. He had been anticipating it. Relishing it, in fact. The thought of getting under Shaw’s skin when Shaw had no way to fire back was too good to pass up. Now it seemed their roles had been reversed; Shaw was under _his_ skin, and he didn’t know how it had happened. Or even that it was intentional. He only knew that they had spent the day together, and he was _happy_ about it, even if he didn’t know why.

But perhaps most distressing of all, Flynn realized that he wouldn’t mind doing it all over again.

He stared at the tabletop between them, an ache beginning to form in the crease between his brows. None of it made any sense whatsoever. He was antagonistically fond of the spymaster, that much was clear to anyone who spent more than a few minutes in their company. Shaw, while he tolerated Flynn’s presence when necessary, could hardly be accused of harboring any particularly sunny feelings for the erstwhile pirate so often found underfoot.

Why was Shaw being so bloody _tolerant_ , then?

The sharp rap of a fork on the tabletop jerked him out of his own thoughts. Flynn looked up to find Shaw staring at him, an expectant look on his face. “Yeah?”

Shaw gestured to his own mouth, and then pointed at Flynn.

“Feeling a bit strapped for entertainment, are you? Well, I’ve been talking all day, my friend. If I’m being honest I’m clean out of amusing anecdotes and tall tales. Not a joke left in me.” He leaned back in his seat and scrubbed a hand over his face. Being the only one with a voice was much more work than he’d anticipated.

Never the sort of man to give up, Shaw pointed his fork at Flynn.

“Me?”

Shaw nodded.

“You want me to talk about myself?”

The smile he received seemed to indicate that he’d guessed correctly yet again. Only, this time he wasn’t sure he liked the result. Telling Shaw stories of adventures and conquests was one thing, telling the man about his actual life was… a bit more than he’d bargained for, to be honest. Shaw seemed to sense this, and he frowned at Flynn.

“Look, I’ll be straight with you,” Flynn explained, “I’m not all that interesting. What you see is what you get.” That was true enough. Mostly.

He received another disbelieving look from Shaw, and a sad little frown that might have been better suited to a playhouse stage. Trust Mathias Shaw to have mastered the art of guilt, as well. The man could do everything else, why not that?

“Alright, alright,” Flynn groused. He took another bite of his eel and chewed it slowly, trying to think of what he might dig up from his own past that would possibly be of interest to a man like Shaw. “Well, you might’ve surmised I was a pickpocket myself. …Or you have some sort of file on me. That’s it, isn’t it? No, don’t shake your head, I see that devilish grin you’re hiding. Busybodies, the lot of you.” He watched Shaw shrug and return to his meal, still suppressing the ghost of a smile. The man was insufferable. “As I was saying. Thieving. Did that for a fair few years before I found my way onto a ship’s crew. Not the most reputable set, if I’m being honest.”

He talked about himself for the rest of the meal, through dessert, and then continued even after they left the tavern. When Shaw wasn’t occupied elsewhere he was focused on Flynn, absorbing his life story as though he hadn’t already heard every sordid detail from his dodgy little minions. Flynn found it unsettling at first, and then a bit flattering, and by the time they crossed the bridge that would take them back to the harbor he’d largely stopped thinking about it at all. The confusion and discomfort he had been wrestling with over the first part of dinner had all but faded to a slightly nagging feeling in the back of his mind, and he was well used to those. Mostly used to ignoring them.

If pressed, he might have admitted that things had turned out alright after all. So the day hadn’t gone exactly as planned; Shaw hadn’t even blown up once. That wasn’t a bad thing! And it was likely the man would wake up in the morning good as new, ready to face the day with the same stony silence he seemed to enjoy so much. Only now it would be by choice.

Really, Flynn decided as he walked Shaw up to the gangplank beside the _Wind’s Redemption_ , he couldn’t have asked for anything more. And if they came out the other end a little friendlier than before, so much the better. After all, he had wanted to be Shaw’s friend, hadn’t he? It seemed he had finally found his way past the limpet’s shell. All it had taken was one little curse.

He made his goodbyes and turned around to leave, having dispatched his duty to see the spymaster safely back aboard his floating home away from home. The subtle clearing of Shaw’s throat caught his attention, stopping him short. He was expecting another flat, semi-tolerant smile, or an approving nod. That would have been nice.

Instead, Shaw stood upon the deck of the _Redemption_ , looking down on Flynn through the fog and flickering lamplight, and silently mouthed the words _thank you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to write a series of fics about Shaw or Flynn (or both) ending up cursed in various ways. They won't be related stories, just little stand-alones that all have the same general theme. So if you're interested in being notified when the next one is up, subscribe to the series!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had assumed the next chapter of this story would be finished sooner, but then I realized I didn't like anything that I'd written. So I redid the entire second half of the story, new series of events, new everything. It took a bit longer as a result, but I think it's much better now.
> 
> As of right now I'm pretty sure it'll be 6 chapters total. Fingers crossed it stays that way.

It was an unusually cloudless day in Boralus, and Mathias Shaw was up on deck, enjoying the radiant warmth of the sun. He watched the crowds moving past the _Wind’s Redemption_ , swirling about like flotsam caught in a strong current. The heavy scent of salt in the air mingled with cook smoke from the nearby Tradewinds Market, bringing baked fish, fresh bread, and other tantalizing smells to the hungry spymaster’s senses. He scanned the dock again, finding no sign of his escort, and frowned. He knew Flynn liked to sleep in, but this was getting ridiculous.

With an unhappy huff, Shaw pushed off from the mast and made his way over to where Wyrmbane and Jes-Tereth were speaking quietly over the map table. He ducked his head to catch the high commander’s eye.

“Mathias, yes,” Wyrmbane said. “What can we do for you?”

Why did everyone keep asking him questions as though they expected him to answer? He couldn’t _speak_. No one aboard seemed capable of keeping that very obvious fact in focus for more than a few seconds at a time. Not for the first time, Shaw found himself considering that Flynn may have been right about the drawbacks of waiting out this curse aboard the _Redemption_.

He frowned at Wyrmbane, receiving a look full of well-deserved chagrin. “Apologies, Mathias. Yes or no questions, of course. Are you in need of some assistance?”

Shaw nodded.

“Is it something I or the grand admiral could do for you?”

Another nod.

“Here.” Wyrmbane reached for a scrap of parchment tucked beneath the map. He handed it to Shaw, along with a quill. “It’s not much, I would advise brevity.”

Shaw fought the urge to roll his eyes. He’d sent ciphers halfway around Azeroth with nothing more than an inch of blood-stained burlap to write on. He could make himself clear on a small piece of blank paper. Slowly, so that the others could read along, he scrawled _Seen Fairwind?_

“Captain Fairwind? No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him yet today,” Wyrmbane answered. He turned to Jes-Tereth, who only shook her head. “I hadn’t realized you were waiting for him. I take it you two planned to spend the day together again?”

In his experience, it was difficult to actually control unconscious physical reactions like blushing. Shaw had learned early on that distraction proved far a more effective tool. And it might have done so in this case, had he managed to think of even one way to draw their attention from the heat that crawled up his throat to the very top of his head.

Jes-Tereth, who had evidently abandoned such silly notions as manners, chuckled. Wyrmbane had the grace to pretend as though he hadn’t seen anything. Privately, Shaw considered drowning them both, before dismissing the notion entirely. Jes-Tereth could probably swim.

Instead, rather than (further) dwelling on his humiliation, Shaw let out a long-suffering sigh and nodded. He gestured to the busy harbor that surrounded them, and its obvious lack of Flynn.

“I’m sorry, Mathias. I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

“Is the Spymaster missing his friend?” came Shandris Feathermoon’s voice from the stairs leading belowdecks. She appeared in the doorway as no more than a shape, resolving from pure shadow in a way most trained operatives could only ever hope to mimic. The natural affinity for the darkness exhibited by most kaldorei was a thing of beauty—to those who knew how to truly appreciate it. “Captain Fairwind is rather fond of sleeping late,” she said. As though Shaw hadn’t already considered that. It had taken a Drust curse to reveal the truth that every one of his colleagues thought he was a complete idiot.

“Have you checked his vessel, Mathias?” Wyrmbane asked. A spark of pain lit the right side of his face as Shaw clenched his teeth. Surely Wyrmbane knew he’d been aboard the _Redemption_ all morning. He must have witnessed the increasingly menacing figure hunched against the mast at the other end of the deck. But maybe Shaw was overestimating the man’s awareness of his own surroundings. The high commander was clad head to toe in solid plate, after all.

Shaw nodded, and did an admirable job of concealing his frustration, he thought. Flynn had definitely been right: if he had been left to his own devices aboard the _Redemption_ , mired in this curse as he was, he might just have murdered everyone by the end of the first day.

Rather than standing around and watching their blank stares, Shaw decided to take the matter into his own hands. The _Middenwake_ was moored just down the harbor, in a smaller slip at the end of the wharf. Flynn would be aboard, no doubt drooling into his arm. The walk there took him less than five minutes, but the sheer length of his morning made it feel more like twenty.

He leapt across the gap, landing silently. There was no need for stealth, but the part of him that had just spent the walk to the _Middenwake_ contemplating how best to assassinate his comrades without getting caught was also pleased by the idea of startling the captain from his slumber. After all, Shaw had been waiting most of the morning. A little vengeance wasn’t entirely unwarranted.

Alright, so he was in a fairly foul mood.

He knocked on the door to the cabin, listening to the water slap against the ship’s hull, and the gulls crying out for attention overhead. No sound issued from within. He knocked again.

After several minutes of waiting, Shaw gave in to the urge to be rude and simply reached for the latch. To his surprise, the door swung open with a groan, revealing a sparse but functional cabin—and nothing else. Flynn was nowhere to be found, and Shaw wasn’t naive enough to think the sound of boots on the deck above wouldn’t have alerted the man had he been belowdecks. Where, then, was Flynn Fairwind?

He might have made off for the market, but Shaw was certain he would have seen him. He’d been on the lookout for that tousled head of auburn hair and the easy smile that accompanied it. There was a slim possibility that Flynn had left him at the _Wind’s Redemption_ the night before and gone straight to a bar, but that also seemed unlikely. In Shaw’s opinion, their evening hadn’t been the sort best capped off by drowning one’s sorrows in a bottle of rum. In fact, things had gone so well, he’d been half-certain Flynn was going to ask to come aboard and join him in his bunk.

And Shaw… Well. It was unlikely he would have said no, had that been the case.

In truth, he’d had his eye on the Kul Tiran for some time. Never much more than an overall appreciation, but real enough that his objection to spending the day with Flynn had, at least in part, been prompted by the concern for how his own feelings might be made clear in his attempts to communicate. And too, Flynn was simply a pain. Shaw fantasized about pinning the man’s arms behind his back and throwing him down over the nearest piece of furniture nearly as often as he imagined gagging him and enjoying some silence. Occasionally he combined the two in far more enjoyable ways.

Now, of course, he had all the silence he could ever want. Only Flynn had made that setback, that frankly galling inability to simply make his mind known, tolerable. He had spent the day with Shaw, taken his foul mood in stride, and overall it had been a remarkably pleasant experience. Even the rowdy sailors, whose collective arrogance Shaw would have enjoyed taking down several notches, hadn’t done much to put a dent in his good mood by the time they left the crab fights. To say nothing of the fights themselves, which he had unexpectedly enjoyed (and possibly planned to attend on his own at some unspecified date).

Nothing was ever simple where Flynn Fairwind was concerned, and that was, perhaps, what drew Shaw to him. What made him loathe the man nearly as much as he desired him. His infatuation, like Flynn himself, was incredibly inconvenient.

Shaw took another quick look around the _Middenwake_ , at first certain he had noted any potentially relevant details. But as he made to jump the gap back onto the dock he spotted something peculiar, and definitely out of place: a scrape of mud, in the half-moon shape of a bootheel. Far too large to have been left by Flynn as he climbed aboard the ship. The dried shape of the mark suggested someone far heavier, as well. Together, Flynn’s unexpected absence and the boot print put Shaw on alert. He had spent too long mired in the subtle signs of foul play to give these small signs the benefit of the doubt.

He leapt to the dock and made his way briskly back to the _Wind’s Redemption_. Wyrmbane, Jes-Tereth, and Shandris Feathermoon had been joined by Kelsey Steelspark, and they were deep in conversation over some unrolled scroll, pinned down at the corners where it was spread out across the map table. Shaw considered asking them for help, but hesitated; the simplest communication seemed to go right over their heads. While Steelspark was clever enough to assemble just about any contraption the mission might require, Shaw wasn’t certain he trusted her to solve the riddle of what incredibly straightforward message he was attempting to convey. He also didn’t have time to write everything down, if his suspicions were correct.

Instead, he rudely thrust himself into the center of their meeting, grabbing several sheets of blank parchment. He also appropriated the scrap note he had used to communicate with Wyrmbane regarding Flynn’s whereabouts. While the others watched, he scribbled out two more quick messages, tossing the quill aside when he was through. Wyrmbane grunted an objection, and Jes-Tereth muttered something under her breath, but Shaw ignored them both. He had more important matters to worry about than a few ruffled feathers. Only Shandris seemed unperturbed by his sudden appearance, and she merely stepped back out of the way until he was finished.

“Mathias, is something wrong?” Wyrmbane asked.

Shaw waved him off and spun on his heel, already on a course back to the gangplank. _No time to explain,_ he thought as he took the steps down from the ramp two at a time. He slipped into the crowd entering the market, sliding past those moving too slowly, practically dancing through the crush of bodies to reach his destination as quickly as possible. Finally he arrived at the well-worn steps that would lead him down into the Ashvane yards. The same route he had taken with Flynn.

Finding his way back to Maddy’s warehouse-turned-arena wasn’t difficult; Shaw had memorized their path from the market knowing how likely it was that his day with the captain might end in disaster. It hadn’t, of course, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret his caution regardless. Knowing one’s surroundings was perhaps the first and most crucial step in a quick and with any luck _bloodless_ escape. Now, he would need that information to return to where things had first gone wrong. Where Shaw had been targeted by a furious sailor, convinced he was a cheat. The man had gone on to gather a posse to track them down, following them all the way to Hook Point in an effort to recoup whatever losses he’d felt he was owed. That suggested a grudge, and a grudge could very well mean he was willing to up his game to abduction. Or worse.

Shaw located Maddy within the sweaty press of half-drunk bodies milling about the warehouse. He was over by the small, netted arena, arguing with a woman carrying an empty crab cage.

“He’ll regrow ‘em!” Maddy shouted. “No refunds!”

Well, Shaw reflected, Flynn had been right about that much, at least.

“I trained that crab myself! There’s no way he should have lost!” the woman insisted.

“You can’t train crabs, now you’re just sayin’ nonsense!” Maddy rolled up his sleeves, appearing as though he intended to fight for his point of view—and his gold. “I’ll entertain a lot of silly notions, but not this! Not lies about crabs!”

It would have been entertaining under any other circumstances, but Shaw couldn’t wait around to see who would prevail in their battle of wills and possibly fists. He pushed his way over to Maddy and stepped in front of the woman, who complained loudly, and gave him a shove from behind. Fortunately, she seemed to quickly decide that pursuing the matter beyond that one outburst wasn’t worth it. Or she’d spotted the collection of throwing knives and daggers strapped to Shaw’s person.

“You!” Maddy exclaimed, a broad smile lighting up half of his face. “Mathias Shaw, wasn’t it? Welcome back! Got the taste for crab, have you? The fights, I mean, not the—” He coughed. “You know what I mean.”

Shaw was beginning to see why Maddy and Flynn got along so well. He shook his head. Holding up a finger to forestall any questions he couldn’t answer, he reached into the pocket on his belt and withdrew the note that read _Seen Fairwind?_ He held it up in front of Maddy’s face.

Maddy shook his head, frowning past the note at Shaw. “Can’t read, I’m afraid. Couldn’t before the knife, but I never bothered learning after, either.”

Sighing heavily, Shaw pocketed the note. He held his hands up, searching for some appropriate pantomime. Finally he decided on two he thought should do it: he clenched his fist at the back of his head as though holding something, and with the other hand he made a gesture he hoped would indicate talking. A _lot_ of talking.

“Oh, Flynn!”

Shaw nodded eagerly.

“Haven’t seen him since you were in. I’d expect to find him trailing in your shadow like a lovesick squid, if I’m being honest. How’d you manage to lose him?”

Despite himself, Shaw felt the heat of embarrassment overtake him for the second time that morning. He really needed to get that under control. He shook his head.

“You don’t think he’s in some sort of trouble, do you?”

Shaw nodded again. It figured that a man called _Mad Crab_ would be able to understand him where his own colleagues could not.

“This got anything to do with that rowdy bunch in here yesterday? Shouting something about ‘thieving Alliance dogs,’ or some such. Had my boys send ‘em packing.”

That sounded like the men who had followed them to Hook Point.

“Ashvane’s men, ‘fore she turned traitor and her ships were seized. Now no one’ll hire them on account of the shady business they were dealing under the admiralty’s nose. They spend most of their free time harassing good folks around the shipyards. Sometimes they come in here.”

Shaw gave Maddy a look he hoped would express his need for their location, or even just a general direction in which to look.

“Try a place called Lefty’s Hook. Hugging the sea wall off the main road, just before you reach Dampwick. Not much more than a little shack of a place. Rabble like them seem to flock there. Might be they find odd jobs, might be no one minds their brooding, sneering faces.” He reached out and grasped Shaw’s forearm. “Make sure he’s not in over his head again, yeah?”

Shaw offered Maddy a frown, which the man correctly took to mean that he would do his best. He wouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep; where Flynn was concerned, nothing was ever certain. He slipped back into the crowd and out of the warehouse, once again headed in the direction of Dampwick Ward.


	5. Chapter 5

The bar, if it could even be called that, was indeed a shack. No bigger than some inn rooms Shaw had seen. He performed the quickest reconnaissance of his life, peering through gaps in the clapboard and counting the number of warm bodies within. No sign of Flynn, but he hadn’t expected they would be keeping him out in the open.

He spotted the sailor from the crab fight almost right away. There were seven others with him, including what Shaw took to be the bartender. They didn’t seem agitated. No sign at all that they had done anything untoward, in fact. At least not apart from the usual business men of their sort got up to when they were feeling restless.

“What’d you do to him, anyway?” one of them asked the sailor. He was leaning back against the bar, fingering a chipped glass as he stared at the ceiling.

“Broke his fingers. Said if he didn’t shut up I’d break his nose to match,” the sailor laughed.

Shaw grimaced and clenched his fists, battling the urge to smash through the rotted wood and garrote the man where he stood. He could take them out easily. There were only eight of them, after all. Seven if the bartender proved himself the coward he appeared to be; his hunched shoulders, averted eyes, and careful movements didn’t proclaim him one of the group. It would be a simple matter to incapacitate each one.

In fact… Shaw couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t do just that. This wasn’t a major op; he owed no diligence to anyone save himself and Flynn, and the culprits had already all but confessed. The lord admiral would hardly bat an eye at the apprehension of a few of Ashvane’s former thugs, even if they reached Tol Dagor a little worse for wear.

“He says, ‘I ain’t got no more gold, I swear it!’” the sailor continued.

“So what’d you do?”

“I’m a man of my word. I broke his nose.”

The bar erupted in raucous laughter, and Shaw made up his mind. He cast off all notions of stealth and simply entered the bar through the front (and only) door. The laughter stopped. Suspicious stares followed his every move, and the angry sailor narrowed his eyes. He seemed to realize that he knew the stranger standing before him, but perhaps he was too drunk, or simply too stupid, to place the face.

“Who the hell’r you?” one of them asked. Shaw found the nearest piece of discarded, dry wood and gave it a shake to test its strength. When it proved sufficient for his purposes, he pulled it back with both hands, took a deep breath through the nose, and slammed it into the side of the man’s head. He went down like a length of loose rope.

“Get him!” someone else shouted. They leapt at him as one, and Shaw easily ducked their clumsy, drunken attacks. He incapacitated the next two with quick strikes to the kidneys, temporarily crippling both and sending them to the ground writhing in agony.

The bartender fled, just as Shaw had hoped. He slid along the wall until he could make a break for the door, and Shaw considered that he might be running to fetch the city guards. All the better for his purposes if that was the case; he was in Alliance leathers, and these men were known Ashvane sympathizers. Unless the bartender was running to find backup, which seemed unlikely given the current climate in Boralus, the numbers would only shift the situation further in Shaw’s favor. Not that he needed the help.

“I remember you now,” the angry sailor said, taking a swing at Shaw’s head and missing. “You’re that Alliance dog who cheated me out of my gold yesterday!”

Shaw removed him from the fight with a blow to the lower jaw, slamming the heel of his palm into the man’s chin hard enough to make his teeth clack together like Midsummer firecrackers. He stumbled back into the wall and slid down, disappearing from view behind the row of tables and chairs.

The other three were less keen to fight by that point, having seen their friends go down so easily. But they charged in nevertheless, and Shaw sidestepped one, aiming a kick to the back of his knee before swinging around and sending him face-first into a chair with another blow to the back of the head. Someone grabbed his arms from behind, and he spared a second to appreciate that they had managed to grope their way to a single advantage, before he promptly hooked an ankle with his foot and threw himself back, taking his would-be captor with him. They both went down, and as the arms around his chest fell slack, Shaw tucked into a roll, leaving the man groaning in a pile of wood that had once been a table.

The last one simply ran after that.

With the fight concluded, Shaw made his way over to where the sailor still lay crumpled against the wall of the shack. He was conscious, and glaring daggers, but didn’t seem inclined to move. Shaw hauled him up and threw him across one of the rickety tables. It rattled and threatened to collapse beneath the added weight, but he didn’t much care. His only concern was Flynn’s safety.

Holding him in place by the throat, Shaw reached back and pulled out one of the notes in his belt pocket. He shoved it into the sailor’s face with a silent snarl.

The sailor’s eyes crossed slightly as he read the writing. At least he seemed able to read. “I—I don’t,” he stammered, swallowing hard. “ _Who?_ ”

Shaw turned the note around and read it: _Seen Fairwind?_ He rolled his eyes and shoved it back in his pocket. The second note, the one that read _WHERE IS HE?_ took its place.

“Did… you write these notes before you came here?” the sailor asked quietly. He gasped when Shaw tightened the hand on his throat. “I don’t know who you’re talking about!” he cried. “Who are you—wait, okay, yeah! Your guy, right? The one doing all the talking? Pretty face.”

Now was _not_ the time to blush. Shaw grimaced, hoping to hide his reaction.

“I haven’t—augh, you’re chokin’ me! I haven’t seen him!” the sailor gasped. He kicked out, trying to dislodge Shaw, but it was pointless. He had no real reach to speak of in that position. “Ain’t seen him since yesterday!”

Shaw held up his free hand and wiggled his fingers. Then he tapped the side of his own nose.

“That—no, wait! I know what you’re thinking, but that wasn’t him! Little guy, owes me gold. I—I roughed him up a bit, that’s all, not your boyfriend! Ah! I mean friend, I’m sorry!”

Why was that the first conclusion _everyone_ leapt to? Not that it wasn’t… Well. He had certainly never thought of himself and Flynn moving in that direction before, but he was beginning to. Especially after their evening together, the dinner, and that walk back to the _Redemption_. It had been quite lovely, really. One of the few peaceful evenings he could recall since sailing into Boralus Harbor.

“Can I… go?” the sailor asked meekly. He pointed to the hand still wrapped around his neck.

Shaw sneered and pushed himself upright using the sailor’s throat for support. The man lurched to the side and dry heaved a few times, making a show of how injured he was. Shaw didn’t care. Flynn wasn’t with these cowards, and that meant he had no idea _where_ to find him. He had exhausted his only lead already, with nothing to show for it but questions that had no answers.

Dark clouds had moved in while he was busy taking care of the garbage inside the bar. Shaw stepped out into the familiar Boralus gray and frowned. He could retrace their steps from the day before, but he was just as likely to end up wandering in circles before he found anything relevant. By that time, Flynn could be in real trouble. And not just the sort he seemed to attract on his own through no effort at all.

Despite the rare sunlight earlier in the day, the ground around Dampwick seemed perpetually wet, and the mud was thick around his boots. He lifted one of his feet and considered the half-moon boot print on the deck of the _Middenwake_.

That was when he heard a familiar voice.

“Here, kitty! Come here!” the girl called out.

His eyes widened and he sucked in a breath—of course, the thieves! They had lifted every last copper from Flynn’s person, and it was no small sum. Combined with the subsequent trip into Upton, they must have assumed he was much wealthier than he, or his clothing, let on. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for one of the pickpockets to track him to the harbor and locate his vessel. Shaw certainly hadn’t been on the lookout for a tail, with his attention focused on Flynn all evening.

He hurried toward the sound, careful to keep himself hidden between the walls of the ramshackle houses. The growing rumble of storm clouds overhead concealed the squelch of his footsteps, and he thanked the miserable weather in Kul Tiras for working to his benefit just the once.

The girl—the _pickpocket—_ was standing in the middle of the street, still barefoot, and clothed in the same rags as before, holding the length of dirty ribbon she had called a collar. The thugs were nowhere to be found, but Shaw assumed the little melodrama they had acted out the day before was a one-time-only show, performed merely for the benefit of selling the con. When no one else was around, the girl dropped her arms and stopped searching for the non-existent cat, her shrewd little eyes scanning the street for another potential mark. It was almost impressive, given her age. Or it would have been if it wasn’t so depressing.

Rain began to fall in fat droplets, and whatever traffic had been out on the street abruptly thinned. Apparently sensing the futility of waiting around in the rain, the girl instead decided to make for shelter. She ran toward the same row of unsteady shacks, disappearing into the gap between two of them just as she had the day before. Shaw circled around to the other side, but she never emerged; no footprints appeared in the mud on the other side of the buildings, and no sign of her remained on the street. That could only mean she was inside somewhere.

On his first trip through area months before, Shaw had noted that most of the structures were more than one story, despite their poor quality. Given the proximity to Tiragarde Sound, the poor shape of the streets outside, and the condition of the lowest ranks of their members, Shaw concluded that the gang’s leadership would likely quarter themselves on the higher levels. They would make the children who stole for them live in squalor on the ground floor, where flooding and filth would make life miserable. If that was the case, his only way in without detection was up.

It was easy enough to reach the rooftops without making a sound. He crawled across the slick shingling, careful to test every step before placing his weight upon the tiles. Every strong breeze rattled the wooden walls beneath him, forcing him to pause, and slowing his advance. He checked one building after another, peering through the many gaps in the shingles and listening for the sounds of activity within.

He had just crouched atop the roof of the largest building in the row when he spotted Flynn. They had him tied to a chair, arms behind his back and his feet bound to the legs at the ankle. His left eye was swollen, the skin around it turning black, and he had a nasty cut on his neck where someone must have held a knife to induce his cooperation. Nothing a skilled healer couldn’t take care of, Shaw decided. There was no gag in his mouth, which he found odd—he knew Flynn, after all. He strained to hear what they were saying over the rain.

“—walking around with that much gold in your pockets.”

“I’m telling you, mate, it wasn’t mine,” Flynn insisted. “I was only holding it for a friend.”

Shaw sighed through his nose. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he definitely wasn’t surprised.

“Right, yer friend,” one of the thugs in the room sneered.

“Well, if you want to be technical about it, he’s more like my boss.”

“Boss.”

“Absolutely. Fellow’s loaded, too. If it’s gold you’re after, you’d be much better off poking around _his_ pockets. You’ve already searched me and come up empty handed, haven’t you?”

Some of the thugs looked at each other. They seemed doubtful.

“Exactly. So, why don’t you untie me, and—”

“Not a chance,” the first thug snapped. “We’ll send a message to this boss of yours, if he even exists. If he trusts you enough to send you out with that much of his gold, he’ll pay to get you back. And if not…”

Flynn seemed to deflate a bit, as though he hadn’t considered that he might be ransomed, rather than permitted to leave. But why? If he gave them Shaw’s name, or told them to deliver the message to the _Wind’s Redemption_ , he had to know that someone, likely Shaw, would come to rescue him.

Shaw froze, watching Flynn’s head hang dejectedly.

 _Did_ Flynn know that?

He thought back on their previous interactions, their missions together, and all the times the man had made a nuisance of himself out of sheer boredom. He considered the way Flynn behaved, and how he spoke when he was around Shaw, as opposed to others. It was different, just as he would have expected, but not so very different. Nothing had ever suggested that he thought Shaw hated him—

Then Shaw remembered the comments Flynn had made the day before, during lunch. His offhand remark at the crab fight. Words that could only be taken, by anyone who wasn’t blinded by their own affection and blatant misreading, as resigned acceptance of the way things were.

_I’d complain, but you’re saying more to me like this than you ever have otherwise… the only way you can let me know how much you hate me… I realize suffering my company is the next best thing to outright torture…_

Flynn truly thought Shaw hated him. Or at the very least he assumed Shaw's feelings ran strongly toward dislike.

What a fool he’d been, thinking Flynn might have returned his feelings. The man was clearly convinced that Shaw would let him die in the hands of petty thugs before extending a hand to help him. Of course he believed that a ransom attempt would meet with refusal. Light, whatever impression he had built with the Kul Tiran during his months in Boralus, it had not been a favorable one. And it was high time he corrected that.

  
Wyrmbane raised his eyes from whatever he was doing at the map table as Shaw marched up the gangplank of the _Wind’s Redemption_ with single-minded intensity. He opened his mouth to speak, likely to ask about the success of Shaw’s search, but it seemed even the high commander of the Alliance could correctly read a look on occasion.

Shaw took the stairs down into the crew quarters two at a time, headed for Jes-Tereth’s cabin. It wasn’t hard to reach. At midday, and with most of the ship’s crew out on deck, there was no one around to question why he was forcing the lock on the grand admiral’s door.

From time to time it was necessary to grease the wheels of war in order to keep things moving. Bribes, payouts, and outsourced hires for various jobs were not uncommon. People had to be paid, regardless of the reasons why they were doing the work. Fighting for king and country simply wasn’t enough when the difference was a hot meal or a bed to sleep in at the end of a long journey. Rather than trusting to the harbormaster’s security, the coffer for those funds remained firmly in the grand admiral’s control. She held the purse strings, doling out gold as needed, and always with a firm eye on the iron-banded chest that held the sum designated by the crown for vital matters.

Well, Flynn Fairwind had put his life on the line more than once for the interest of the Alliance. Shaw considered his safe return a vital matter if anything was.

Unfortunately, Jes-Tereth also kept the key for the heavy lock on her person at all times. Shaw had seen it, seen where she _kept it_ , and he knew he would never manage to pry it from her armor without a significant distraction. He simply didn’t have time for anything so elaborate. He would have to obtain the gold another way.

It was a good thing he just so happened to be a master spy with a particular fondness for picking locks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter several times, and it ended up being a little over twice as long as all the others. I'd apologize, but... I don't think anyone is going to complain. Except me.

The door slammed into the wall with a deafening clang, unintentionally startling several of the children inside. Shaw was momentarily stunned by just how many of them were crowded into the small space. He wanted to tell them _go to the harbor, tell Wyrmbane you need his help,_ but he had no voice. Instead, he merely hooked a thumb over his shoulder and gestured for them to leave through the same door. He didn’t like the thought that he might be swarmed by orphans with misplaced loyalty to their masters while his back was turned.

One of the thugs was already on the stairs, brandishing a knife. “Well, well, well. Looks like the Alliance has decided to start on us, now. What’s the matter, lion’s man, the Horde not giving back good enough these days?”

That was a new one. Shaw rolled his eyes and held up the smaller of the two sacks of gold he carried. He shook it to make the coins within clink, just for good measure.

“Bring him up,” he heard another voice call from the top of the stairs. Apparently money talked, and gold especially carried over a distance.

He followed the thug to the upper floor, where he found nearly two dozen of them gathered around, with Flynn in the center. He was still tied to the chair, only now they had gagged him.

“And just what is it that brings an Alliance…” The man Shaw had singled out as the leader, who had made the decision earlier that Flynn would be ransomed, stood next to the chair with a hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “What are you, anyway?” he asked. “It’s hard to tell you lot apart, what with the matching armor and all. A mage? Can you do tricks?”

Shaw sighed heavily. He had removed most of the more obvious weapons he carried, leaving them behind aboard the _Wind’s Redemption_ for both practical and personal reasons. He had expected to be searched, though. These men clearly weren’t as professional as their army of indigent children would suggest. It made him angrier, somehow, to know that Flynn had been mistreated by such common trash. To see how they conducted their business, when it was already bad enough to begin with.

Flynn mumbled something beneath the gag, and the thug looked down at him. “He’s a talker, this one. I’m almost tempted to just give him to you, but if he’s worth the risk of walking in here alone, he’s worth a price. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

Shaw reached for his belt, only to find several swords, knives, and at least one pistol aimed at him. He held his hands up and gestured to the small pouch that held his notes.

“Go on, then,” the leader instructed.

Slowly, Shaw withdrew the third note he had written that morning. He handed it over to the closest man, who passed it to the leader.

“Well, this explains why you’re so quiet,” he muttered to himself. He held up the note that read _I want him back_. “Kind of figured, what with the gold and all.” He had the note passed back to Shaw’s hand. “What’s to stop me from keeping him? Sending you back for more?”

As an answer, Shaw reached for the second, larger sack of coins. He shook his head, hoping the others might understand his meaning.

“All you have, is it?”

Shaw nodded.

“So, I suppose this makes a twisted sort of sense. You can’t speak, and he can’t shut up.” He gave Flynn a light smack on the back of the head. Shaw struggled to keep from baring his teeth at the man. “He’s like your seeing-eye dog, eh? Or a… speaking-voice idiot, I suppose. How long does it take to train one of those?”

Shaw grimaced and shook his head. He really would have liked to kill every single one of them, then take all the children they had forced into their service and drop them at a decent orphanage. But their numbers were simply too great to guarantee his survival—or Flynn’s.

“Right, suppose I should have expected you wouldn’t answer. Surprises me the Alliance would bother with a mute. You must be skilled in whatever it is you do. Puppet shows for the boy king, maybe?” The man smirked. “Or you’re just skilled in _other_ things.” He dug his fingers into Flynn’s hair, pulling some of it from the leather tie that held it back. “Is that why you want him back so badly? Does he perform some of those private duties for _you?_ He’s got quite a mouth on him. I can’t imagine why you’d suffer his incessant talking without some way to shut him up now and then.”

He knelt down next to the chair and looked at Flynn. “That’s it, isn’t it. You suck his cock and speak for him so he can serve the crown?” he said quietly. He turned just enough to give Shaw a sidelong smirk as he whispered in Flynn’s ear. “Bet you’re good at it, too, with all the exercise that mouth of yours gets.” He stood and gave Flynn a pat on the head.

“I hope you have at least two hundred gold in there,” he said to Shaw.

In fact, Shaw had brought well over five hundred. He would have brought a thousand, but he didn’t think he could have snuck so much off the boat without someone noticing.

He tossed the two sacks of gold to the same man who had taken the note, who then took a look inside each. “Alliance gold,” the man murmured. “Looks to be enough.”

Shaw snorted quietly. He had his doubts the idiot could even count properly, let alone estimate the sum contained in those leather sacks.

“Well, suppose that’ll do, then,” the leader said. He gestured for the others to untie Flynn. “I’d advise keeping the gag on until you need his mouth.”

Flynn was lifted out of the chair, and he staggered forward on unsteady legs. He tore the gag from his own mouth and whipped around as though he had something cutting to say, but then he seemed to abruptly think better of it. He shook his head, muttering, “Let’s go,” to Shaw as he stumbled past.

“Enjoy, gentlemen!” the mocking voice called after them as they descended the stairs. “Pleasure doing business with you!”

  
“Why did you pay them off?” Flynn demanded as they made their way back to the Ashvane yards. “Now they’ll just come looking for more the next time their pockets start feeling light. You should have left me there.”

Shaw could only shake his head. He couldn’t actually answer any of what Flynn was saying, but of course Flynn had to have known that.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he continued. “You’re going to say that the only other solution would’ve been to kill them. That they know who I am, they know my ship, and if you hadn’t taken out every last one right then and there it wouldn’t have mattered, because they’d just come looking for revenge. And then you’re going to say that even _you_ can’t take out two dozen heavily armed men, though you would have given it a good try if needs be.”

That was more or less what he would have said. But Flynn had missed one crucial point. That the money itself was meaningless; Shaw would have paid any amount to get him back, and he didn’t care that they kept the gold. It wasn’t as though the crown was suffering for lack of funds.

“And I’m sure, even now, you’re plotting how best to take them out one by one,” Flynn went on to say. “Or else stick your SI:7 on them when they least expect it. And don’t get me wrong, I am all for it. I’d like to help, in fact. But—” He stopped walking. Shaw turned around to find him staring at the ground. “All that, for me?”

 _What bothers you more,_ Shaw wanted to ask, _that I risked myself, or that you thought I wouldn’t?_

He wanted to reach out and take Flynn’s hand. The last few hours had put some things into perspective for him, and he was tired of pretending he didn’t want more from the man who had stumbled into his life full of bad ideas and far too much confidence and then refused to leave. Tired of telling himself that it was only a passing infatuation. No one walked into a den of cutthroat thieves for a crush.

“Well, let’s get you back to the _Redemption_ , I suppose,” Flynn sighed. “Wyrmbane’s got to be worried sick about you. Like an ironclad mother hen.” He started walking again, his steps a little surer than they had been back at the thieves’ hideout. “I could use a stiff drink.”

Shaw made a motion with both hands, imitating crab claws clacking together.

“Doubt Maddy’s generosity will extend to free drinks two days in a row, and I’m fresh out of gold. So are you, if I’m not mistaken.”

As an answer, Shaw produced a third small sack of coins, which he hefted in his palm.

“And what would you have done if they’d searched you?” Flynn asked.

Shaw merely shrugged.

“Tides help me. Can’t wait for you to get your voice back.”

  
They returned from the Ashvane yards as the sun set over the distant mountains. Flynn didn’t wait for an invitation—not that Shaw could have extended one—and simply climbed the gangplank behind him. “I’m famished,” he complained, following Shaw into his cabin. “I assume you’re going to need something to eat, and I have every intention of tying my line to yours and taking full advantage of that convenience.”

Shaw had indeed been thinking of dinner. Though they were only a stone’s throw from the market, Jes-Tereth had insisted that the ship’s cook continue to provide meals for the crew. It was a prudent move, and one Shaw himself might have recommended, had she not gotten to it first.

He leaned out into the corridor and whistled sharply. A crewman appeared moments later, and Shaw handed him a note, holding up two fingers.

“Right away, Master Shaw,” the young man said.

“That’s mighty convenient,” Flynn remarked. “Say, you’ve been able to whistle this whole time?”

Shaw hoped the look on his face expressed how truly stupid that question was.

“Well, why haven’t you done it until now? I’m just curious, is all. Might have come in handy.”

 _When?_ Shaw wanted to ask. Instead he just shrugged and gave him a critical look.

They ate the stew in silence once their meals arrived, which Shaw found he didn’t much enjoy. He had made his own remarks in the past about Flynn’s habit of filling every space with the sound of his voice, but in a relatively short time he had come to appreciate the man’s willingness to talk whenever someone else wouldn’t. Or _couldn’t_ , in his case. Flynn had made every effort to keep him entertained, going so far as to share very personal details about himself. It was a kindness he hadn’t anticipated, and only endeared the Kul Tiran to him that much more.

He tapped his foot against Flynn’s beneath the table.

“Yeah?” Flynn asked. “Don’t tell me a hot meal in a ship’s cabin isn’t entertainment enough for you? After the day you’ve had?”

Shaw wanted to laugh. Flynn still didn’t know half of what he’d gotten up to before actually locating where he was being held captive. Instead, he tilted his hand back and forth, and enjoyed the resigned sigh he received in return.

“Well, I suppose you’ll want to know how they managed to get the drop on me aboard my own ship.”

Shaw nodded.

“It’s quite a tale, actually…”

Flynn talked through the rest of the meal, just as he had the night before, waving his spoon about as though it had been a crucial part of the adventure. He skipped over some details, like his own thoughts upon realizing that any hope of a rescue would depend on Shaw’s willingness to extend Alliance resources for a wayward ex-pirate. He didn’t know that Shaw had seen his dejected look, or the slump of his shoulders when they told him that his life would be in the hands of a man he thought hated him.

He was halfway through retelling the entire rescue effort from his perspective when Shaw got an idea. He stood up, interrupting Flynn, and grabbed paper and a quill from his desk. He brought both back to the table and started to scratch out a note.

Flynn seemed confused by the short message. “ _I don’t hate you_ ,” he read aloud. “Well, thanks, mate? I suppose that’s good to know. Not sure why you—oh, alright,” he said, handing the note back when Shaw gestured for it.

Shaw scratched out the first line and wrote instead, _Actually, I like you_.

Flynn read that too, but he didn’t seem any happier about it than he had the first message. “I admit I had started to think you and I might become friends. Real friends, not… whatever it is we are now,” he said. “Hard to tell, though, when you’re dealing with a man who can’t make himself known, but you did smile a few times yesterday. And not just when the crab you’d bet on happened to win.”

Shaw sighed. Communication had been their problem all along, hadn’t it? He had mistakenly assumed that Flynn understood, or maybe just didn’t quite get it, but at least had the general idea. He thought that Flynn must have realized Shaw was in some way fond of him, and valued his presence. If he had managed to successfully communicate that much, he might not have felt so awkward confessing what _else_ he felt for the Kul Tiran. A matter that hadn’t been quite so pressing just that morning. It was interesting how so little could change so much.

He reached for the paper and scratched out the second note as well. _I like you quite a bit. And I respect you,_ he wrote. He only turned the paper around that time.

Flynn leaned forward to read it. “Ah, well, thanks,” he said. “Look, my stew’s gone cold, and it’s been something of a day. I’m thinking I might just head back to the _‘Wake_ and get some rest.” He stood up, and Shaw stood with him. “Thanks for everything. You know, the whole…” He made a gesture with one hand. “The rescue. I’ll find a way to pay you back. Eventually. Maybe.”

Didn’t Flynn believe him? Was he still convinced that Shaw harbored some secret disdain he wasn’t willing to admit? If he did, then he had greatly overestimated Shaw’s willingness to hide his opinion of people whose word didn’t carry enough weight to see him thrown into a cell.

He rounded the table and met Flynn at the cabin door. The written word had failed him, and he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t have mattered if he could speak. All the words he’d tried to use in the past, up to the very moment, had been wrong.

Flynn Fairwind had never been a man overly concerned with plans, and so this one time Shaw chose to do the same. He simply acted. Grabbing Flynn by the collar, he pulled him in for a kiss, bringing their lips together perhaps a bit more harshly than he’d intended. The thrill that lit through him was like the fuse on an explosive charge. He pushed Flynn back against the door, using the weight of his body to pin him in place. The lips under his gave just a little, began to soften to his kiss.

And then Flynn grunted and pushed at Shaw’s chest, shaking his head as though coming out of a spell. “By the Light, man, what—what are you doing?!” he demanded.

Shaw could only shrug; he didn’t really know. It had seemed right in the moment, but now he was beginning to question the choice to simply go with his gut. He felt his face heat, and cursed himself for being so obvious, so careless.

“Shaw,” Flynn began. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “In the past two days I’ve been all over Boralus with you, in and out of every establishment from illegal crab fights to high-society dining. I’ve run for my life, been beaten up, tied down, and for a while there I was genuinely convinced I might die. That’s a lot for a man to take in. But this… this is…” He shook his head. “This is a bit much to absorb at once. Even for me.”

There was a moment where Shaw was certain he felt his entire stomach turn over. He mouthed _I’m sorry_ , but he wasn’t sure Flynn had even seen it before he was out the door and gone, the sound of his boots fading as he climbed the steps up to the main deck.

Shaw sat down in what had been Flynn’s chair and buried his face in his hands. From working with Flynn to befriending him, he had somehow done everything backwards. And now he’d offered the man his respect, only to instantly ruin his own efforts with an awkward attempt at turning their very new friendship into something more. Something Flynn didn’t even _want_ , apparently.

 _Some spy,_ he would have said if he’d had the voice to say it. A crow with an eye on everything below, too busy with his own business to notice he was flying headfirst into a wall.

In retrospect, things might have gone better if he could speak.

He pushed aside the bowl of stew and stood up, tugging at the lacing of his armor and peeling himself out of the offending leather one piece at a time as he stumbled toward his bunk. The leather hit the wooden floor at his feet with a solid sound, one thump after another.

Suddenly, the door swung open and hit the wall of the cabin, and then Flynn was standing there.

“So, I may have misspoke,” he said, coming in and shutting the door behind him. It did not escape Shaw’s notice that he slid the bolt into place as he did so.

Shaw shook his head and looked at him questioningly.

“See, I’d been so worried that you _hated me_ , which, you have to admit, is difficult to fathom.” He gestured to himself. “Nevertheless, here we are. And then I was focused on making you _like me_ , because, frankly, I am a delight, ask anyone. And I did a superb job of that, all things considered. But then I was so in my own head about why you’d bother to ask for my stories, and listen so attentively, and how it was you seemed to actually _enjoy_ my company, that it never occurred to me what the obvious reason was.

“And so you kissed me, and I think, for just a moment, I lost the ability to think rationally. Kudos to you for that, by the way. I’d claim that’s not a feat easily accomplished, but you likely know my history better than I do at this point, and you know what a lie that would be. So, as you may recall, I left. Which was the last thing I should have done.” He moved closer to Shaw, coming to stand before him. The very minor difference in their respective heights had never much bothered him, but he suddenly found himself keenly aware of even that slight disadvantage. Oddly enough, it excited him. He hadn’t expected that.

“The first thing I should have done was this,” Flynn said, before leaning in for a kiss. He wrapped his arms around Shaw’s back. “And this,” he murmured against his lips. He pulled back and nipped Shaw’s lower lip. “And there’s a whole long list of various sweet and somewhat inappropriate things I’d like to do after that, but I think we’d both be better served at this point if I just showed you.”

Shaw nodded at him.

“Good,” Flynn said, stealing another kiss. “But we’re far from alone on this ship. You’ll have to keep quiet, if you think you can.”

That earned him a dramatic sigh and a look that he hoped would correctly translate to _was that really necessary?_

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” Flynn said, pulling him away from the table. “I know you can’t speak. It’s just that we have a lot of lost time to make up for, and I have every intention of seeing how loud I can make a silent man breathe.”

  
Flynn had pinned him to the cabin wall between two portholes, and Shaw was currently grasping the edges of each with enough force to make his fingers ache. Flynn was on his knees, one of Shaw’s legs hooked up and over his shoulder, doing things with his tongue that could only be described as _obscene_. Fulfilling the promise Flynn had made, Shaw was panting openly into the otherwise silent cabin, his hoarse breaths broken every so often by an effort to swallow and wet his throat.

Most of Shaw’s armor had been discarded already, and Flynn had seen to the rest before divesting himself of his own clothing. It was a good thing, too; Shaw could feel the sweat on his skin, rolling down the back of his neck. The cabin was as hot as Stranglethorn in the summer, and only the cool air from the open portholes made it bearable.

Flynn withdrew from between Shaw’s legs and came up slowly, drawing his tongue along the underside of Shaw’s cock as he did. “Like that, do you?” he asked with a wink. Shaw might have smacked him if he’d had the presence of mind to do anything with his arms but hold on tight. Instead, he nodded, and tugged at Flynn’s shoulder.

“You want me up there?” Flynn asked. He stood and pressed the length of his body to Shaw’s, bringing his hands around to knead muscles that suddenly felt unbearably sore. Shaw realized then how tense he had been, standing on the toes of one foot, trying to remain as still as possible for Flynn. “But you were making such lovely noises when I was on my knees,” Flynn murmured to the skin just below Shaw’s ear. “Maybe it’s that you want a turn.”

No one needed to tell him twice. Shaw dropped to his knees and swallowed Flynn’s cock, sucking eagerly and _loudly_. It had always fascinated him, how much sound everything made when there were no words to get in the way. He supposed that was what made him so good at his job. Now it added a whole new dimension to what he was seeing and feeling. He listened to the rasp of Flynn’s shuddering sigh, and the slick glide of his lips over Flynn’s hot flesh. He listened to his own breath—little more than shallow pants through his nose as he worked to bring Flynn closer to climax.

Flynn had his hands braced against the cabin wall, his head hanging between his shoulders as he watched. Shaw had never seen him look so attentive, or heard him speak so little. His hair was matted to his skin with sweat, and the muscles of his abdomen—he hadn’t been lying when he defended his fitness the day before—clenched with every breath.

“Oh,” he groaned, “you’re good at that. I’m better, but you’re _very_ good.”

Shaw pulled back with a smack of his lips and frowned up at him.

“If I take it back, will you keep going?” Flynn asked, grinning. But Shaw had already returned to mouthing the sensitive head of his cock, tracing the ridge with his tongue, even as he eyed Flynn with a heated glare. Flynn grunted and said, “You know… I may have gotten a bit ahead of myself, there.” Shaw watched him swallow hard before he managed to find his voice again. “Stand up, would you? There’s something else I’d like to do.”

Shaw dove in for one last, lingering suck, and then stood as requested. He arched a brow and waited for whatever it was Flynn had in mind.

“I, hm…” Flynn began, hesitating. He backed Shaw into the wall and kissed his neck and ears. “I’d like to fuck you, if you’ve no objections,” he whispered. The words were hot and heavy in Shaw’s ear, and Flynn’s tongue followed lazily, punctuating the request with its gentle caress.

Shaw tried to hum, but of course it made no sound. He kissed Flynn instead, hoping that would serve as his answer, because he was through nodding.

Flynn growled happily and yanked him away from the wall, all but throwing Shaw across his own bunk. He crawled over him and began mouthing along the length of Shaw’s spine, not stopping until he reached the very top of his ass. “Funny, just yesterday morning you wanted to strangle me, now you want to kiss me,” he chuckled.

 _Yesterday morning I would have done either,_ Shaw thought. _Strangling you was just higher on the list of priorities at the time._

“Though, suppose we could add a little light choking to the list. For next time.”

Shaw snorted and tried to roll over, but Flynn kept a hand on his back to hold him in place. “Ah-ah,” he admonished. “I’ve got other plans for you. Head down, eyes closed, if you please.”

Flynn shuffled around behind him, and then his weight disappeared from the bunk. Shaw did as he’d been instructed, though it galled him just the slightest bit. He supposed Flynn still believed that he was in charge.

“Don’t suppose you’ll mind if these laces take a little vacation from your armor,” Flynn said.

Well, that explained what he was up to. Shaw heard the pop of the leather rapidly passing the grommets, and considered reminding Flynn that they _were_ at war, and he might need to be up on deck, fully dressed, at a moment’s notice. But things in Kul Tiras had been quiet, and he decided perhaps it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he let Flynn Fairwind have a little fun. His day had arguably been worse, after all.

“I figured,” Flynn said, settling in behind him again, “ that I’ve already been tied up once today. It’s your turn.”

 _Oh really,_ Shaw wanted to say. He was fairly certain Flynn just wanted a reason to exert a little more control. One offhand remark from Wyrmbane and the man suddenly thought he’d been promoted.

And that his promotion somehow extended to the bedroom.

Shaw sighed dramatically and put his arms behind his back. He heard a pleased sound from Flynn, and felt him shift again. “Wouldn’t want to see that delicate skin damaged,” Flynn muttered. Shaw felt a piece of cloth wrap his wrists before the leather ties were wound around it. An unexpected emotion gripped him then, and he struggled to keep his breathing even.

“No, that won’t do,” Flynn murmured. He leaned over and nuzzled the hair at the nape of Shaw’s neck, drawing an entirely different sort of emotion from him. “I want you breathing hard, not holding your breath.”

Shaw nodded uselessly. Shifting beneath Flynn, he lifted his backside and spread his legs as much as he could between Flynn’s knees, offering himself up. Flynn made a sound like a growl and Shaw felt teeth connect with the meat of his shoulder. He hissed, and the pain shot like a hot lance down the length of his body, pooling in his groin and making his cock throb.

“Oh, that’s nice. All spread out for me. Suppose this’ll do in lieu of making you tell me how much you want it.”

If he could have groaned, Shaw would have been groaning and cursing, demanding that Flynn get to it already. He pushed up on his knees a little more, pressing back against Flynn just to feel the hot, stiff line of his cock, but Flynn sat back on his heels, _tsking_ at him.

“First things first,” he said.

Shaw buried his face in the blanket and gasped after his own breath as it shuddered out of him. Flynn’s mouth was suddednly on him again, doing those obscene, _incredible_ things that made Shaw’s toes curl. He licked and teased while his fingers massaged the places his mouth couldn’t reach, and Shaw strained against the leather ties. He was even more grateful for the cloth Flynn had thought to put between his skin and the leather when he felt the knots tighten around his wrists when his own arms flexed as Flynn’s tongue flicked over him. If he’d had a voice to shout, he would have—along with a few choice words that might have made Wyrmbane blush up on deck. Instead, the air punched out of his lungs like a shot.

“Like that, do you?” Flynn purred in a voice that was far too sultry. It did things to Shaw, heated things inside him that made his thighs quake. Made him imagine what else he’d like. A part of him wanted to sink into Flynn and ride him until they were both spent and breathless, or swallow him down until he had to choose between the cock in his throat and the air in his lungs. He also wanted Flynn inside him, _now_ , but he couldn’t express any of that. All he could do was pant and sigh, and hope that Flynn knew. Fortunately, he seemed to. He seemed to understand everything Shaw wanted of him.

“Ready for me?” Flynn breathed, placing a kiss at the base of his spine.

Shaw tried to tell him that he wasn’t simply ready, he was _aching_ for it, but it came out as little more than a huff. He could only nod, making a choked sound that might have been a whine if he’d had a voice. Flynn’s fingers traced the places his tongue had been, leaving him to shiver in their wake.

“You’re nice and relaxed. Stay that way for me, alright?”

Shaw nodded. He twisted his fingers together and blew out a breath, wondering if maybe he could get away with rubbing off on the bed a little bit. He wouldn’t come just from that. Probably. But it would be so much better if he waited. If he was worked up and desperate for it. He thought of feeling Flynn inside him, his balls slapping against Shaw’s ass with every thrust, and tried to moan.

“Soon,” Flynn promised. His hand settled on the small of his back, and Shaw felt the precome-slick head of his cock as it pressed against him. “Relax,” Flynn reminded him in a whisper. Shaw nodded, but he had a feeling no response was actually needed. Flynn seemed to know what he was doing, anyway.

Being breached and filled by Flynn was enough to make Shaw’s breath come in hot gusts, panting into the sheets as his cock pushed deeper and deeper. He could hear hissed curses behind him, little sighs as Flynn settled himself inside. It was just slick enough and almost too dry, and it felt perfect. Shaw’s stomach clenched and he grit his teeth as Flynn began to move, slowly, and with no real effort to come just yet.

“How do you like it, Shaw? What’ll get the most noise out of you? Slow?” Flynn asked, pulling out and pushing back in at the same even pace. “Or fast?” He jerked his hips back and slammed forward again, and Shaw gasped, drawing a chuckle from Flynn. “Fast it is, then.”

He urged Shaw further up onto his knees, gripping his shoulder with one hand and his hip with the other as he slammed into him over and over, until Shaw knew he’d have been screaming if he had the ability to do so. There was something almost primal about being mounted and fucked raw, and Flynn seemed to know it. He made no effort to keep his voice down, groaning and cursing as he took Shaw for everything he could. Shaw spared a brief thought for Shandris and the other members of the crew with better-than-average hearing, but then a particularly breathtaking thrust from Flynn knocked the concern clear from his mind. He really didn’t care.

His mouth moved, begging wordlessly, trying to make sounds the damned curse wouldn’t permit. At one point Flynn leaned down over him, continuing to rut against him from behind. Shaw felt and heard the words whispered against his skin. “I’m going to come on you.”

At first, Shaw thought he’d heard Flynn incorrectly. He thought Flynn must have said _in_ him, which he was perfectly happy with. But then Flynn’s hips started to jerk just a bit out of rhythm, and his breath hitched as he abruptly pulled out. Shaw tried to ask him what was wrong, but of course no sound issued from him. And it hardly mattered, anyway—a second after he clapped his mouth shut again he felt the hot splash of Flynn’s come on his ass, warming his skin, now sore and sensitive from being so used. He pressed his forehead into the sheets and hummed a quiet sigh.

Then, without any warning at all, he felt Flynn’s tongue return. It was so unexpected that Shaw nearly jumped out of his skin. The firm press of it against his hole, lapping at him, lapping at—

Shaw gasped and tried to turn, but firm hands on his hips kept him where he was. He could only shudder and mouth curses as Flynn licked at the streaks of his own come. _Filthy_ was the only word that came to mind, and when he felt the tickle of Flynn’s beard and the warm wetness on his balls, he abruptly tensed and came harder than he could remember ever coming in his life. His breath ripped its way from his lungs as though some force had pulled all the air from him at once.

“That’s good,” Flynn murmured, still favoring Shaw with the occasional sweep and press of his tongue. “Seems you liked _that_ , didn’t you.”

Too far gone to bother with more than the most basic coherency, Shaw simply nodded against the sheets. Flynn let him go, and Shaw slid down onto the bed on his stomach. Right into the wet mess he had just made.

“We’ll have to get you clean, mate,” Flynn said. He untied the leather cords around Shaw’s wrists and stood up from the bed. “Water?”

Shaw lifted a shaking arm and pointed weakly at the sideboard.

“Ah, good. I can have a drink while I’m at it.”

As he watched Flynn drink, he could only think of their dash from Maddy’s warehouse the day before, and how winded Flynn had been at the time. Maybe it really had just been the ale, he mused. The man certainly seemed in fine shape now. He wasn’t even winded.

Shaw received a wink from over the rim of a glass of whiskey. “Bet you’d have a few fond things to say about me now if you could, eh?” Flynn said with a smirk.

* * *

**Epilogue**   
  


Flynn watched the rise and fall of Shaw’s chest as he slept. He had woken first, crawling out of the bunk to take another drink from the carafe. For all his wariness and expertise, Shaw hadn’t stirred once that morning. Seemed the man took advantage of every possible opportunity to truly sleep, which Flynn supposed made a great deal of sense in his line of work.

He settled himself in, stretching out along the length of Shaw’s body and slinging an arm across his waist. Morning afters weren’t usually something he partook of, what with the general lack of night befores, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret staying the night with Shaw. And it was also an issue of practicality; the man would only be back aboard the _Middenwake_ at some unholy hour anyway, banging on Flynn’s cabin door and demanding another jaunt around the city. Unless he had designs on expanding his troublemaking efforts into Stormsong, of course.

After several minutes had passed, Flynn caught sight of one green eye peering at him from the other side of the pillow.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he said, grinning. “Don’t suppose that handy little trick with the whistle might bring us some breakfast?”

“Haven’t you done enough talking for two days?” Shaw groused, rolling onto his side and taking the blanket with him as he stretched every muscle from his arms down to the tips of his toes.

Flynn watched the show with a greedy gaze. “I could talk all morning if you let…”

Shaw tensed beside him. He flipped over onto his back again, suddenly wide-eyed and staring at Flynn. “My voice,” he said.

Tides, it was _strange_ to hear him speak. “It’s back!” Flynn cheered.

“It would seem so.” Shaw coughed, then hummed, testing his apparent good fortune. “It doesn’t seem to be any different. I assume this means I’m free of the curse.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Flynn asked excitedly.

Shaw, obviously accustomed to answering with gestures, rather than words, only shook his head. Then he seemed to remember he _could_ answer, and he said, “I—yes. No. What?”

“You’re cured.” Flynn sat up in the bed and grabbed Shaw by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Don’t you see? I did it! It was me! Shaw, I fucked the curse out of you!”

His declaration was rewarded with a pillow to the face. But he threw it aside with a laugh and looked down at the recalcitrant spymaster in the bunk beside him, promptly forgetting anything else he had been intending to say. Shaw was lying in the bed with his arms crossed, a sullen look on his face. But it wasn’t his frown that made Flynn so happy—happy to have come back, happy to have stayed.

“Mathias Shaw,” he said, delighted by the sight before him, “you’re _blushing!_ ”


End file.
